


Recite

by ariaadagio



Series: ReVerse [4]
Category: Grey's Anatomy
Genre: Brain Damage, Drama, F/M, Fix-It, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:01:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 53,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariaadagio/pseuds/ariaadagio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Shepherd's gotten healthy enough that he's remembering how to be a big-picture thinker.  The problem is, he doesn't like the picture he sees.  As Meredith and Derek plan their vow renewal ceremony, Derek struggles with an unexpected turn in his grieving process.  [MerDer, post 11x21, fix-it, multi-chapter][COMPLETE]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, all! So, it's been a while, hasn't it? Nice to see you again :)
> 
> This is a follow-up to the other stories in the ReVerse (Recover - Request - Reclaim). If you haven't read at least Recover and Reclaim ... you will be utterly lost in this one. I'm not kidding. Go back and start with Recover, or your brain is going to be hurting by the end of this chapter. You've been warned.
> 
> This is a short novel. It's a prologue, four chapters, and an epilogue. I may split one chapter due to length. I'm still debating on that point. I have no specific posting schedule, but I am going to shoot for two chapters a week. This is the prologue, so it's fairly short, but I promise the other chapters are much meatier.
> 
> Anyway, we've spent so much time with Meredith, I figured it was time to visit with Derek. I wanted to follow him a little bit through his grieving process, explore the depths of what he can perceive versus what he can say, and touch on his growing familial bonds with Meredith, with his children, and even with Stewart. This is not a fluffy story, though it does have some fluff, and it deals with some pretty serious subject matter, so be prepared for a bit of a rocky ride. That all being said, I do hope you enjoy this. And, please, if you have some time, leave feedback - I love hearing from everybody :)
> 
> Lastly, I want to thank my two tireless beta readers, my cover designer, and my editor. Without these four ladies, this story wouldn't be nearly as pretty or polished as it is today. Thank you!

**Prologue – January 2017**

_Wind rolls over the hill, bending grass blades and forcing flowers to bow. The field is awash in yellow, quarter-sized blooms as far as the eye can see – daffodils or … dandelions or … who the hell knows? – and the movement fills the space with a distant rustling. He stands next to Meredith on the crest of the bluff, naked. The breeze laves his unshielded skin._

_Meredith glances down at herself, frown deepening as her gaze roves lower and lower, starting at her chest and ending at the tips of her bare toes. "This is seriously how you want to get married?" she says, folding her arms over her breasts as she shifts to face him. She gives him a look of consternation. "I thought you were joking."_

_He smirks. "Well, I was." He lets his appreciative gaze roam south of her navel. "But you have to admit, this isn't the worst way to get it done."_

_She snorts. The field melts away, and then they're in a dark bedroom, lying in a bed with blood-red sheets. She shifts so she's on top of him. Her hair falls down around his face. She dips to kiss him._

" _There are worse ways," she agrees in a soft voice._

" _Mmm-hmm," he says. "Like at the roller derby."_

_She laughs. She smacks him lightly on the shoulder. And then her face gets serious. "Izzie's going to make this into our nightmare, isn't she?"_

" _I'm afraid so," he replies. He returns her kiss and takes control. Their positions trade. Her lithe body lies underneath him. He straddles her, his weight on his knees and arms. "Just so you know, though," he says against her ear, "I'd marry you anywhere. Any way. Any when. Even in a nightmare. Even in scrubs with a bouquet of scalpels and clamps."_

_She looks up at him, eyes full of stars. "There you go again."  
_

" _What?" he says._

_She grins. "Always around. Saying things."_

" _Hmm," he rumbles. "I plan to do that for the rest of my life, you know."_

_Her eyebrows raise. "'Til one-hundred and ten?"_

_He nods. "One-hundred and ten."_

_Her gaze hardens like stone. "Well, if that's your plan for yourself," she says, suddenly a glacier in her coldness, "how the_ _**hell** _ _can you explain what you did?"_

_He pulls back, frowning. "Meredith?"_

" _Seriously," she continues with an eye roll. "How could you be so freaking stupid?"_

* * *

He watches, a triumphant grin on his face as the covers rustle and Meredith arches backward in his arms. Tiny, blustering noises of what he would identify out-of-context as distress spill from her lips. Her fingers clutch at the meat of his thighs like she thinks she's falling. She freezes in place, and then bursts into motion. Her abdominal muscles and uterus contract rhythmically, the movement so pronounced he can feel it beneath his palm when he splays his fingers against her navel. Her legs twitch from thigh to toe. Her breathing relaxes as bliss settles into every pore. The contractions slow, and she relaxes in his arms, limp.

He strokes her belly with his fingertips, happy to relax and be silent and still with her as long as she wants to be silent and still.

"Thank that good," she murmurs in a soft, drunk-y, sated tone.

A quiet garble of unintelligible noise fills the space between the three words he was able to identify, and he knows he didn't catch it all, but … he caught … enough, he thinks. Enough to piece it all together. _Thanks, that was good._ Or, maybe, he's gotten enough practice, at this point, that she said, _Thanks, that was_ _ **really**_ _good._ Either way, he's pleased to hear it.

It's the end of the day, though, and his brain is sluggish to connect with his vocal cords. He takes a long while to reply, "I … I'm … g-glad." He swallows. "I get … better?"

She snorts. "Better sense Mozart good piano."

Which leaves him stumped. She tips her head to the side and kisses his shoulder. Her lips are loosely parted, and he feels teeth press against his skin, and then rake. He grins while she toils at the crook of his neck.

"M … Mere … I … tired. Please … please, say more slow?"

She gazes up at him. She kisses him. "Sorry," she says, giving him an affectionate, apologetic look. Her eyes glisten in the moonlight. "I said," she begins, the sound of each individual word protracted by a long pause at the end, "You're 'better' in the sense that Mozart is 'good' at the piano." And before he can ask what the hell **that** means, she adds, "Mozart's not just good; he's a genius, or something like that."

"Oh," Derek says. He lets a pleased smirk overtake his expression.

She rolls out of his arms and onto her stomach. She props herself on her elbows and looks up at him. She reaches up to stroke his face. "Have I mentioned you're a fast freaking learner?"

His grin widens. "Yes, one or two time."

The mattress squeaks as she rises up to kiss him, and then they settle under the covers together, her on her stomach, him on his back. They peer at each other across the rumpled plane of Derek's pillow. For a long while, neither speaks, and he's content. Content that he's pleased her, and content that she doesn't seem to expect much conversation out of him right now. But for all he hates to talk when his head is this raked raw by an exhausting day, he hasn't seen her since breakfast, and he's missed her. He loves to talk **to her.**

"Yours … different," he says as he rolls onto his side to face her.

She raises her eyebrows. "What's different?"

"When I make you … orgasm."

"How is it different?" she replies.

"You feel … all … all places," he says. He runs his palm along the inside of her thigh, groin to knee. "Like here." He kisses her. He draws a circle around the small of her back and drags his finger in a wending trail from there, along the curve of her spine, to her shoulder blades. He spreads his palm flat against her skin. "And … here." He kisses her. Drinks her. He can taste the salty remnants of himself in her mouth. "It is … whole body."

Her eyebrows raise. "And yours isn't?"

"Mine … here." He gestures to his groin. "Like …." He gathers his fist to demonstrate. "It … it … it all …." But he can't describe it in words. The way his awareness gathers to a pinpoint, and his lower body becomes a black hole where all his feelings condense like a star, collapsed. He can't describe how spilling himself inside her, giving a piece of himself to her, is a spiritual experience. An almost come-to-god moment of inner clarity. He can think these things in a vague conceptual sense – they can be beautiful, exquisite pictures in his head – but figuring out how to speak them is … so far beyond him that the explanation might as well be in another galaxy. "I … I don't know word."

Sometimes, she can fill in her own blanks and make sense of his gibberish, but in this case, he's been too vague. She has nothing to go on, and he's stumped her. He can tell by the way she bites her lip and frowns. Months ago, this would have been a frustrating, ruined moment for him. Now, though, he doesn't let himself dwell on what he can't do. Not when he's with her. Laugh or cry. He chooses laugh.

"We should do until I figure out," Derek says with a wink.

She snorts with laughter. "Dr. Shepherd, are you suggesting an entire night of dirty, dirty sex?"

"No," he says.

Her eyes narrow. "Well, what are you suggesting, then?"

He scoots closer and captures her lips with his own. "I think it take more one night."

Another giggle. If there's one exceptional thing about the laugh-not-cry approach it's that … god, he loves her mirth. It's ambrosia for his ears. "Maybe, forever?" he adds with another wink. "I'm not good with word."

That gets him a whack with her pillow, and they laugh as their limbs become a tangle. The covers rustle as their bodies shift. It's been long enough since she took him in her mouth that he's aroused again, and he searches for another coveted come-to-god moment as he pushes into her. She makes a soft, pleased noise as he enters. Heat envelops him. Her green eyes meet his, unblinking, as she runs her fingers through his hair, and they share this connected moment in stillness.

"I love you," he says. "I love … very many." That's not right. "Much. I love … very much."

"I love you, too," she replies without hesitation. She glances at the clock, and then back to him. Her smile widens. "Happy New Year, Derek."

"Yes," he replies. "Happy New .…" He can't finish his sentence.

The sensation of his body forming a union with hers strips his words away. He can't speak and do this, too. _You know, it's not every girl who can say she literally makes her husband speechless,_ she said once, when he tried to apologize for his inability to multitask. Another reason he'll love her until his last breath. That he can be himself with her, less than he was before, and yet never feel diminished.

"You better pay me back with a lot of coffee tomorrow," she says. "I have early rounds, and New Year's Day is a car accident cornucopia."

He's not sure what a cornucopia is, but he can sort of guess via context. He grins, nods, and kisses her. "… Yes," he tells her.

They settle into impassioned silence after that, and they whittle away the night together, wordless.

* * *

The sliding doors swish open, and a blast of warm air that smells like cedar rushes against his face as he steps inside the pet store. The bell rings, signifying a customer is entering. Latoya looks up from the cash register, sees that it's him, grins, and waves.

"Hi, Derek," she says. "How Felix?"

Derek returns the wave. "Hello," he says. "Felix is okay."

She nods. A man with a big black dog lines up to check out, and her attention is split. "Know can help you anything," she replies in a rush, looking away. _Let me know if I can help you with anything._ He knows that's what she said because he's heard her say it so many times.

"Thank you," he says. The doors close behind him, and the traffic noise melts away.

The first thing he does — the first thing he always does when he comes here — is stop by the eight windows in the back to look at the cats and kittens. He can't take any more of them home, but looking at them and playing with them through the glass is an amusing way to make time pass when he's waiting for Meredith to pick him up. When Derek has a **lot** of time to kill, and the store isn't very busy, Latoya sometimes takes him into the back, and he sits with them, just to give them some human company. From personal experience, he can understand how scary it is to be trapped in a new place, not knowing what's going on, and the cats seem to appreciate the petting, regardless. Today, though, he just glances at them, pausing to grin at two youngish gray tabbies who are curled up like pretzels together in one of the cages. Out of reflex, he glances at the index card that has their information, but all he sees is a neon blur of unintelligible color, and he doesn't try to decipher it today.

He moves to the cat food row in the back of the store and wanders up and down, trying to locate Felix's preferred kind. He and Meredith are out, and he promised he'd grab some today to save her some extra lugging at the grocery store. He frowns as he paces up and down, looking at each shelf with slow care. The cat food he wants isn't where it usually is, and he can't find it anywhere else in the row. He takes one more slow trip up and down the long block of shelving. The food isn't there.

He could ask Latoya for help. Latoya learned Derek's name when he and Meredith came in to pick out a cat, and since then, she always says hello when she sees him. She's never once given him the impression she thinks she's talking to an idiot. She doesn't speak louder, like she thinks his ears don't work, and she doesn't speak in that awful, patronizing tone some people adopt when they realize Derek can't talk very well — she waits for him to ask for clarification and otherwise assumes he gets her — and it's a comfort, being treated that way. He doesn't mind talking to Latoya.

But … he's been trying. He's been trying so hard to get over his reservations about talking to people he doesn't know. It's hard to function independently in a world where he only feels comfortable conversing with a handful of people, and … he wants that. He wants to be independent again. So, he searches the store until he finds an employee he doesn't recognize, ignores the horrible pit in his stomach, like he's practiced so many times, now, and walks right up to her.

She's pointing a gun-shaped thing at a tag, and a beep follows. He waits for her to finish.

"Hello; can I help you?" she says with a smile when she looks up. Her hair is black and straight and shoulder-length, and her figure is small and svelte. She's pretty. He glances at her name tag. Mei Xing.

He swallows, and the pit in his stomach grows. He doesn't even try to say her name, because he knows he'll butcher it. His throat has stopped cooperating already. With some effort, he says, "… Yes," in a quiet tone to stall while he gathers his nerves.

He pulls out his phone, swipes it open, and navigates to the photo gallery. He has a picture of a can of Felix's food, just in case all words abandon him. He keeps pictures of a lot of different things, so he can point when his throat closes up, or he forgets words. He likes having a backup for basic communication.

The girl leans in to take a look at the picture. He takes a breath. Talk. _Just talk_ , he tries to tell himself. _If you screw it up, you screw it up, but at least you said something._ "I …." He swallows again. He taps the photo with his index finger. "Can you tell … w … where to find?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," the girl says. "We don't stock this kind anymore."

He blinks. "Why?"

"The manufacturer discontinued it," she explains.

"What …." He snaps from knowing what he wants to say to not knowing how to ask her in an eye blink. The words are just … gone, and he gets that frustrating it's-on-the-tip-of-my-tongue feeling he sees even normal people getting now and then. With him, though, it happens **all the time**. He closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. How else can he ask, working around the sudden blanks in his vocabulary? "Please, can you … recommend me?" he says in a wobbly, disconnected tone as he detours around the traffic jam.

The girl frowns. Just a little. The fluorescent lighting in the store begins to feel impossibly hot and bright. He licks his lips.

A tense beat of silence follows, and then comprehension slides across her face. "You want something similar, you mean?" she says.

"Yes."

She smiles. "I'm sure we can find something. Let's go take a look."

He follows her back to the cat food. Mission accomplished. All the tension sloughs away, and he sighs as the trembling feeling in his muscles subsides.

"Thank you," he says as they move through the store.

And he can't help but smile.

* * *

The road rushes beneath Stewart's station wagon as he drives them down Interstate 5 toward Portland in a gray, misty cloud of winter drizzle. It's a Friday afternoon, and the Trail Blazers have a home game at 7 p.m. — Stewart's Christmas present to Derek was two tickets to this game, sitting just behind the bench like always. Since the women's teams don't play during the winter, and since Seattle hasn't had a men's team since the Sonics deserted, Portland is home to the closest professional team right now.

"So," Stewart says as he settles into a puttering, cruise-controlled pace and relaxes. The leather seat creaks as he shifts. Rain splatters on the windshield and is whisked away by the wipers. "Did you decide on any New Year's resolutions, yet?"

Derek glances at Stewart's long fingers, which are curled around the steering wheel. The engine fills the relative silence with a low-pitched, rumbling hum. "Yes," Derek says. "I want to drive. But …." He swallows and looks away.

Stewart takes his eyes from the road, takes one glance at Derek, and frowns. "Wyckoff said you can't?" Stewart says.

Derek shakes his head. "He says maybe I can later."

During his last neuro appointment in mid-December, Derek asked about the possibility of driving again, trying all the while not to be too hopeful about it. After a barrage of reaction time tests, Dr. Wyckoff had been cautiously optimistic about Derek being ready sometime within the next year. _But only expect to drive in ze day,_ Wyckoff had warned. _Vis your light sensitivity, to drive at night is not safe._ Which, to Derek, was like being told, _Yep, you can fly to the moon, but only once a day_. The restriction was meaningless in comparison to the amount of freedom potentially being offered.

His chest constricts. He wishes … later could be now, though, and not "soon." The bus stop is too far for him to walk to. He still has to ask for rides to get away from the house. He still can't take the kids to the park by himself. He can't run impromptu errands to help Meredith or pick Zola up from school.

He's this weird pseudo adult.

And he doesn't want that anymore.

"I wish it's now," Derek says.

"I know," Stewart says, sympathy in his tone. "I hated not being able to drive right after my knee exploded into tendon shrapnel."

"Shrapnel?"

"Um," Stewart says. "Fragments in an explosion. Like … oh." He snaps his fingers. "The Death Star exploding. The metal pieces after would be shrapnel. Kind of."

Derek frowns. "This is a bright picture." He glances at Stewart's knee. Stewart's wearing his lightweight brace underneath his jeans. "How do they fix this?"

"Well, okay, maybe, I wouldn't call it tendon shrapnel," Stewart concedes. "But I had **way** more pieces of tendon after I blew out my knee than I did before."

Derek snorts with amusement. He watches the dull green trees slide by in a blur. He remembers doing this. Driving. Sort of like how he remembers sex from before the accident. Not with any amount of clarity, but … he can see himself behind the steering wheel, and he has wisps. Incomplete moments he can grab from the tangle in his head.

_I don't do brunches. I don't miss surgeries. And I don't do Valentine's Day._

"It is … Meredith," Derek admits. "I'm … worry about Meredith."

"Oh," Stewart says with a weightiness that drops his tone into the bass registers. "She doesn't want you to drive?"

Derek shakes his head again. "She doesn't know I want. I'm … nervous to bring it up. She get … many scare. Scared. When I go places. And … a car makes my injury." He sighs. He can't remember it, but, "They say the accident is my fault."

"Oh?" Stewart says. "You never mentioned that."

Derek shrugs. "I don't remember. I don't remember … any." His car had been blocking traffic in both directions, parked across both lanes, perpendicular to the dividing line, when the truck hit, according to the accident report. The problem was … nobody had been able to determine **why** his car had been parked like that,and his memories are gone. So, he knows it's his fault. He just … has no idea why. He ignores the growing pit in his stomach and continues, "I think … my old car is shrapnel."

"Car versus semi is an argument that never goes well for the car," Stewart agrees. He passes a truck and pulls back into the slow lane. "She's gotten a lot better about you going places, though."

"Yes," Derek says, though he still takes care to let her know where he is, down to the smallest side trip. He takes a deep breath, pushing away the sudden crush in his chest. "But this is … still other people drive."

"Maybe, you can think of a way to ease her into the idea," Stewart says.

Derek nods. "Yes," he says. And then he grins. "This can be another resolution."

Stewart snorts. "So, item one. Relearn how to drive moving death traps. Item two. Figure out how to tell your wife you want to drive your **own** moving death trap, rather than letting your buddy Stewart do it for you."

Derek laughs. "Yes, I suppose this is one way to say."

Stewart quirks a thin eyebrow toward his hairline as he looks quickly at Derek before returning his attention to the road. "Anything else?"

"Another resolute?" Derek says. He winces, but the irritation is only a flicker of flame, and it's put out in moments. "Resolution?"

"Yeah, is that it?" Stewart says.

Derek looks at his lap, futzing with his ring finger for a second, and then back to the road. "No."

"So, what's item three?" Stewart prods.

Derek sighs, but it's a relaxed, pleased sound. He smiles, despite the drear. This one is easy. He doesn't even have to think. "I want to get marry again," he says. "I want to remember. I want …."

He pulls another wisp from the tangle.

_I'm in love with you. I've been in love with you forever._

He wants the wisps to be a complete thought.

He wants to say his vows.

* * *

"When do we vow again?" he says on Saturday morning as he and Meredith lay side by side, cuddled together under a fluffy down comforter. He got home so late last night, he didn't have a chance to talk to her, then.

The sun rises behind clouds thick enough to hold, filling the room with dim light as though it were an hour glass, and the light, the sand. Thin lines of frost grip the edges of the window panes, beyond which, the world is dreary. Some trees are dead, gray skeletons. Others – Meredith calls them conifers – remain, but they're a drab sort of green that feels a bit gloomy in the absence of the full, verdant palette of summer. Birds chirp here and there, hopping between naked branches. The kids aren't awake, yet. He's rested. It's one of the few truly quiet times in the house, and the only quiet together time that also intersects with when he still feels like he's all in one mental piece.

Meredith tips her head to the right to peer at him. "The vow renewal?" she says, and he nods. "When do you want to do it?"

He frowns. "How long is plan?"

Her brow furrows for a moment. "You mean how long will it take to plan?"

"Yes, sorry."

She gives him a dismissive wave. "Don't apologize," she says. She always says that. And he still always apologizes. He hates saying wrong things. "Um," she continues, thinking. "Izzie had our aborted wedding planned in less than a month, but she was … rather militant about it. Not to mention she had all day every day to plan, because she wasn't working at the time."

"So, more a month," Derek says.

Meredith nods. "Yes, plus warning."

"Warning?"

"Giving people time to plan to attend," she clarifies.

He shakes his head. This is a common dance between them. Little misinterpretations, stacking like Bailey's blocks. But it's their life, now, and they wend their way to the same page in the same language. "No, I mean who to warn?" he says.

"Our local friends shouldn't have as much of an issue, but your family probably can't just come at a drop of a hat," she says.

He sighs. "Drop of …?"

"Sorry," she rushes to say. "Sorry. Um." She bites her lip, thinking. "Spontaneous. Unplanned. So …."

"Spring?" he suggests.

"How about sometime in May?" she says. And then she grins. "Sort of a one-year anniversary thing. And that gives us about four months."

He frowns. "Anniversary of what?"

Her gaze softens. She touches her palm to his face. "You'll have been home one year, soon. Seems like a good thing to celebrate."

"Oh," he says, meeting her grin with one of his own. "Yes."

He tips himself onto his left side and reaches for her. The mattress squeaks with the shifting weight. The covers rustle as he scoots even closer. He runs a palm from her shoulder to her hip, buried under warm, feathery down. And then he leans close, and he presses his lips to hers.

"You're insatiable lately," she purrs against him.

He winks. "I make up for time lost," he says, and he presses closer still, until his forehead touches hers, and their noses mash together. "I love you."

He feels her hand against his waistband. Her touch slides lower. He presses closer, and she cups him. She rubs gently, readying him. His eyelids dip, and he hums with pleasure.

"I love you, too," she murmurs, nuzzling him. "Very much."

He sighs, content, as he pushes her panties down her legs.


	2. Week One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *tap* *tap* *tap* Is this thing on? Where did everybody go? Have you all escaped from Shonda's clutches? Take me! :)
> 
> Thank you so much to the people who took the time to leave feedback!

"So, the way I see it, first we have to figure out who we want to invite," Meredith says out of the blue as they barrel down the highway toward Seattle proper on Monday morning. "Once we figure out how many people we're inviting, we can choose the venue." They've already dropped off Zola at Briar Cliff Elementary for kindergarten. Now, they're headed for the rehab center, and then Meredith will head downtown for her final stop: work.

"A venue?" he says.

"The place," she explains. It's the second week in February. The day is darker than it should be, thanks to a thick blanket of clouds and gloom, but, at least, it isn't raining like it was over the weekend. She pulls into the passing lane to zip past a minivan. She drives a bit like she's trying to win a race, sometimes, and he grips the door handle surreptitiously to keep his balance. "Like a church, or a rec center, or a hotel, or our house, or … whatever."

He needs … quiet space where he can hear himself think. He doesn't like the idea of a big gathering at the house. Sound carries. Even with the bedroom doors closed. There'd be nowhere for him to go to recharge.

"I like our house, but please not here," he says.

She snorts. "It was just an example. I wouldn't want it there, either."

He nods. "We already agree on one thing."

"That's one option down, fifty-seven million to go."

He frowns. "You exaggerate."

"Yes, that wasn't literal, sorry," she confirms. She sighs. "The other big two things are picking a caterer and picking an officiant. An officiant is like a priest or something." She makes a face. She curses under her breath, glaring at a car in front of them. For what reason, Derek has no idea. "Do you want a priest?"

"I … don't know," he says. "Do you want this?"

"I'm … not religious," she replies, tone cautious.

He shrugs. "If I am … I don't remember."

"Well … I might not go in with you - I mean I think if a god even exists, he's an asshole - but … I could take you to a church service somewhere," she says. The car veers right as she takes the offramp. "Oh, maybe, I could get Miranda to take you. She goes to church." She slows down and the passing blur of trees becomes definitive twiggy skeletons. "If you want, I mean," she's quick to add. "You could … see if that's your thing."

"Did I did …." He skids to a verbal halt with a grimace. Did. Did. Did I did. No. That isn't right. Did- **no**. He thinks for a long, long moment, trying to get the wheels in his head to spin. "Did I … … d-do … this before?" he says, stumbling a little over the correction.

Her eyebrows raise. "Go to church?"

"Yes."

"Uh … I think you did when you were a kid."

"But not since I know you."

"No," she says. "Not for a long while. I always got the impression you stopped after your dad died except for when your mom dragged you there on Christmas Eve." She frowns. "Do you remember your dad dying?"

"Yes," he says. "Some pieces. I'm …."

_That's a real nice watch, mister._

_My wife gave it to me. She's expecting me home soon._

_Isn't that sweet. Give it to me._

_Please, it's an anniversary gift. It's not even worth—_

Derek flinches against the seat as he hears the crack of a gunshot like thunder in his head, and then the sickening, awful sound of a limp body hitting the floor. With so few memories left to choose from, this one is … big. And it's a space hog. And it's sharp like a razor. A lump forms in his throat. His chest tightens.

"I wish I can't," he says, almost a croak. He takes a deep breath and blows it out, trying to cleanse away the horror. "I don't want talk about this."

"Okay," she says, chastened. Her fingers tighten against the steering wheel until her knuckles whiten. They roll to a stop at a red light, and she takes her eyes from the road to peer at him. "I'm really sorry to bring it up. That was dumb."

He shrugs. "No," is all he can offer.

"So, I think it's safe to say no church," she adds.

"Yes," he agrees with a nod. He rubs his eyes and face. His palms rasp against stubble in the silence. Then he clears his throat, and gives her a wavering smile. "Meredith."

"What?"

His smile blooms in full. Just looking at her does that for him. "This one less than fifty-seven million, now."

She blinks. "That's your takeaway from this woeful wrong turn of a discussion?" she says with a laugh. She gives him a look filled with fifty-seven million feelings, the most prominent of which is, _I love you_. "Your optimism is …." She snorts. "I don't even know what your freaking optimism is. It defies definition. It's mutant."

"But you love this," he says.

She nods. "I do. I really freaking do."

His gaze softens as he stares at her, and he sighs. In the gray of the morning, the way the light hits her eyes turns them such a verdant green. Like summer leaves. "You are … pretty eyes," he says.

She reaches across the parking brake to push her fingers through his hair. He leans into the touch. Then the stoplight changes, and she pulls away, returning her attention to the road.

* * *

" _Jo Wilson," Alex says, "love. Didn't expect. Snuck." He smiles. "Best friend." Jo smiles back at him. "Today, Alex Karev, give life," Alex continues. "Pledge alway, add strength, share joy sorrow equal. Most, pledge stay, whether effort difficult, treasure day."_

_Derek grins as he watches Jo speak back her own vows. They're both nervous, and they're both speaking way too fast for him to catch a coherent sentence in the word jumble, but he gets the gist from their consumed-by-each-other expressions and their wow-is-this-really-happening-today? tone. And, as he watches Jo and Alex exchange rings in the small, quiet judge's office, he can't help but imagine that he and Meredith and Alex and Jo have all traded roles, and Derek's the one vowing pretty things to Meredith._ _**He's** _ _the one babbling, saying things like love and pledge, and_ _**he's** _ _the one making Meredith smile like Jo is smiling, and glow like Jo is glowing._

_Derek lives in this brief fantasy while Jo and Alex are having their own historical moment, and Derek's left wondering about his own marriage._

_He remembers the Post-it. He remembers what Meredith looked like and a little bit of how he felt. He remembers signing the slip of paper, and he can even feel the press of the pen on the pad, the imagery of that micro-moment is so vivid. He remembers that he wrote the words before the signatures. But he only knows the words themselves, because Meredith's taken the Post-it down from the wall to read to him several times since he came home._

_He can't remember exchanging vows. All the words he said are gone. All the words_ _**she** _ _said are gone. The before and after of the moment is gone. The_ _**context** _ _is gone._

_The Post-it ceremony is a pretty picture in his head, but that's all it is. A picture._

_Mute._

_Alex and Jo are kissing when Derek returns from his imagination. Meredith tips back her head and looks up at him. When Derek notices, he squeezes her shoulders. And then the wedding is done._

"… _Congratulation," Derek says when an interjection seems appropriate._

" _Dude, thank," Alex replies. He grins at Derek. "Thank come."_

" _Thank you for including me," Meredith interjects._

_Derek can't help but admit he's starstruck by the whole affair._

_And he can't help but admit that he wants it for himself._

_He wants to say his vows._

* * *

Stewart stops by on Tuesday morning while Melody is at Gymboree with Bailey. He stands on the stoop looking tired and inexplicably old. "Hey," he says in a glum tone as Derek opens the door.

Derek frowns. "Hello. Something is wrong?"

"Can I …?" Stewart begins, ignoring Derek's question, and then he sighs. He pulls something out of his coat pocket. A blu-ray sleeve. "Can we watch this …? Or … do anything, really. As long as it's not in my house."

Derek can't read the movie title from here. He doesn't feel very much like watching a movie right now, but something in Stewart's gaze seems … almost pleading. "What is this title?" Derek says.

The edges of Stewart's long, thin lips twitch into a vague hint of a smile. "Another essential pop culture infusion for you. It's about … an unexpected journey," he says. "I just need … um. A brain break."

"… Okay," Derek says. This is … odd. Stewart's just acting … odd. But … this is what friends are for, right? Offering company without asking questions if the need arises? Derek steps back from the threshold and gestures inside. "Come in. We can watch."

"Thanks," Stewart says, wilting with what Derek can only call relief, and he steps inside the house. "I'll make us some popcorn."

* * *

"Do you want to go to the PTA meeting with me next week?" Meredith says as they sit down to dinner on Tuesday evening. He made chicken piccata and green beans for them, and a tiny, plain piece of baked chicken for Bailey. Bailey helped "supervise" while Derek did the work. It was a fun day despite the initial brain crunch from the movie, which had been about a little person called Hobbit going on some treasure-hunting adventure. The movie had been too long, with busy, fast fight scenes, and Derek had had trouble following the plot beyond the broadest of strokes, but Stewart seemed happier when he left, so … job well done, as far as Derek's concerned.

"What is PTA?" Derek says.

"PTA stands for parent teacher association," Meredith explains, leaning forward to help dish up a plate for Zola. Meredith starts cutting the cream-doused chicken into tiny pieces. "It's a … club at Zola's school. It's made up of parents and teachers of the students who go there. The meeting's on Saturday evening. Not this Saturday, but next."

"Why will I go?" Derek says. Bailey's already in his high chair, banging a spoon on the tray table. Derek reaches over, capturing Bailey's fist and spoon, and stills the motion. "Shh," Derek says quietly. He's been nursing a headache since Stewart left. "This bother me, now."

Bailey sighs, but he stops.

"Well, it's … it's to help Zola's school," Meredith says. She passes Zola her plate and starts working on dishing up Bailey's. "And they need to organize a fundraiser or something," she adds as her knife saws through the meat. "They called me yesterday and asked for my support. I would have told you, then, but you were already asleep."

"They have not call before," Derek says.

"No," Meredith says. "I saw the flyers in the school, but .…"

He nods. "You are very busy."

"Yeah," she agrees. "And I guess they're desperate for participation, now, or something. And I don't ever want to be my mother, so … I'm going to try to go." She puts Bailey's plate on his tray table with a thunk. "So, I need to know if you're interested in going, too, because, if you are, I need to see if Melody or someone else can watch the kids that night."

He takes a bite of the chicken. The recipe wasn't hard. He's never had chicken piccata. Or, if he has, he doesn't remember it. He didn't think lemon could possibly taste good with a meat, which, of course, meant he had to try it as soon as he saw the picture in the magazine of the chicken breasts garnished with lemon slices.

"Mmm," he says when he lets it settle on his tongue. He can't help sigh his enjoyment. So, lemon works with meat, after all. He files that away for future reference. "Okay."

Meredith frowns. "Okay, you'll go? Or okay, you understand?" She takes a bite, too. He smiles at the burst of pleasure that crosses her face. "Oh, this is really good!"

"Yes," he agrees. "I didn't think … I will like, but …." Taste. Eat. Dinner. Fork.

"Yummy?" Meredith supplies in the ensuing silence.

He nods. "Yes, this."

"It's yucky," adds Zola, who makes a face.

"Eat it anyway," Meredith instructs.

"But Mommy, it's **gross**."

Derek snorts and leans over to scrape the sauce off the chicken for her with his fork. It's a bit of a placebo, given that there's still plenty of sauce on the chicken, and the meat soaked up a lot of flavor, but Zola seems happier with her second bite. Problem solved.

He looks at Meredith. "Go will help Zo?"

She nods. "Yes. Indirectly."

He smiles. "I will … like this," he says. "I like to help."

"I know you do," she replies with a matching grin. "And I thought, maybe, it would help us meet some of the other parents, too. Which could be good." _For you_ , she doesn't say. It's an implicit thing.

"Yes," he says.

"Medody and I make train wif dinosaur today!" Bailey announces.

"Oh?" Meredith says, grinning. "Tell me."

* * *

Bailey sits at the table, scribbling with an orange crayon as he hums some noisy, helter-skelter tune that Derek doesn't recognize. It's Thursday. Derek's been watching Bailey by himself every Thursday since Christmas. He and Meredith plan to add Tuesdays to Derek's responsibilities, if all goes well, but they're starting small and going slow. So far, it's gone well.

Today, though, his head hurts. His head has been hurting on and off since Stewart came with that marathon of a movie. Derek's been trying to soldier through the discomfort, but as the hours wear onward, and Bailey's inexhaustible energy remains relentless, Derek's head is starting to throb like the slow beat of a drum.

Felix sits in the middle on the tablecloth like a centerpiece. Derek's trying to draw with his right hand. The weak one that's hard for him to move. He doesn't like using his weak hand for drawing, but his physical therapist suggested it as a way to strengthen his tenuous fine motor control, or, at least, as a way to practice compensating for it.

As Derek's purple crayon wanders in a zig-zagging direction like it has a mind of its own, he sighs. He's made a complete mess of the prancing unicorn in the coloring book Zola gave him for Christmas. The drawing makes it seem like his only goal was to stay on the paper, not stay inside the lines. Which … well … at least, he's stayed on the paper, he supposes. Small blessings.

He does a better job coloring inside lines with his left hand. He's not ambidextrous. Not even close. His left hand feels awkward to use and probably always will. But at least he can make it move the way he wants it to go without active thought.

He drops the purple crayon on the page and uses his left hand to flick it toward Felix. Felix pounces, and Derek smiles. Watching the growing kitten play is more fun than trying to make his hand work right. He flexes the fingers or his right hand over and over while he watches. The movement is slow and a bit clunky, but he can make a fist, now. A full fist. And he can squeeze hard enough to push the tips of his fingers into the flesh of his palm.

Fine precision is lost to him, but, at least, he can grip well enough for the grip to mean something. He's thankful for that. Just being able to grip opens up a lot of avenues that, months ago, were closed to him. He can squeeze hard enough to pick up a pen or crank a can opener. To hold a hand. To play games with his son. To offer comfort. To pleasure his wife.

"Dada?" Bailey says, tearing Derek from his musing.

Derek peers at his son. "Yes?" Then a shallow thunk grabs Derek's attention like a thief, and he looks toward the sound in time to see Felix land on the hardwood floor, in hot pursuit of the escaping crayon. The kitten bats the crayon, which rolls out of the dining area. Felix's claws scrabble against the floor, and his tail flicks as he makes a frantic course correction. The kitten disappears through the archway, and the sound of a crayon rolling down the hallway echoes off the dining room walls.

"Dada," Bailey demands, and Derek forces himself to look back at Bailey. Derek raises his eyebrows, waiting for the inevitable question, while his headache pulses in slow time. Bailey gives him a serious look. He drops his crayon and reaches for Derek's right fist. Their chairs are mashed together kind of like a bench, and Bailey doesn't have to reach very far. Derek can't help but smile as he feels a much smaller hand grip his palm. This is a life he made. A life he made with Meredith.

He wishes he could remember anything about it. She's shown him photo album after photo album, but it's like seeing a movie with actors in it. His own blissed-out expression as he peered into Bailey's bright, newborn blue eyes means nothing to him.

"What make dis not work good?" Bailey wants to know.

"I hurt my head," Derek says.

Bailey frowns. "I know, Dada!" he says in a dismissive tone. He squeezes Derek's palm, almost shaking it with the force of the gesture. "But what make **dis** not work?"

"Thinking happens here," Derek says, tapping his index finger to his skull. "My hurt maked this thinking harder."

Bailey considers that for a long moment. "How does it get here?"

Derek frowns. "How does … what?"

Bailey peers up at him. "How does it **go** here?" he says with a look of expectant consternation. Like he expects his dad both to know everything and to be psychic about when to impart said knowledge.

"What is … 'it'?" Derek says, baffled.

Bailey sighs. "Your head."

"I …." Derek blinks. "I don't understand." He closes his eyes for a moment. He feels a bit like a bowling ball is trying to share space with his brain. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to breathe through the pain. "Can you say different?"

Bailey sighs again, sounding dramatic and put upon. He grabs one of the dowels in the back of the wooden chair and hefts himself onto his tiny feet.

"Don't stand on the …." Wood. Table. Furniture. Dinner. "The ch … chair," Derek says, reaching over to scoop his son into his arms. Bailey sets his feet on Derek's thighs and swats Derek's face. "Hey!" Derek says, flinching away. "Don't do this."

"How does **dis,"** Bailey says, swatting at Derek's face again like Derek hasn't even spoken,"go **here**?" Bailey's attention shifts back to Derek's hand, and he bends over to point.

Derek grinds his molars, finally understanding what Bailey's trying to say. Still, Derek scolds, "You don't hit me," in a low, serious tone. "Not even to make me understanding. You can hurt someone with hit."

Bailey has the grace to look chastened. "Sorry," he says.

Derek sighs. His first instinct is to feel bad. He doesn't like to fight with people. He'd rather just … go away. But … he's trying. He stuffs his guilt down deep into his gut, like he stuffs down the bad pints of beer Stewart makes Derek try every once in a while at basketball games.

"Things call nerves connect head to … other …," Derek says. His voice trails away when he can't think of what to say. The words are gone, stuck just beyond his reach, and his head throbs, relentless. Other … other …. Neck. Body. Arm.

"Other what?" Bailey says.

Derek sighs a clipped, distracted sigh as his attention is caught in the snare of his son's words. "What?" Derek says, the word distant. What was …? He rubs the bridge of his nose.

"Other **what**?" Bailey says.

Derek swallows, though all he really wants to do at this point is scream as his frustration compacts into a burning pit in his chest. Sometimes, it's like Bailey knows exactly how to derail every single working neuron Derek possesses. _Welcome to being a parent,_ he can hear Meredith saying in a wry tone in the back of his head. _Sometimes, it kinda sucks._ He rests his elbows on the table. There's a pinch behind his left eye, now, like he has a muscle spasming.

Where was he?

"Nerves connect … your head … to other … body places," Derek manages shakily. He takes his index finger and draws a line from Bailey's temple, down his neck, over his tiny t-shirt and down his arm, ending at his tiny palm. "They go like this. See?"

"Oh," Bailey says. "Why?"

Derek blinks. He will not get more frustrated. He will not shut down because of a little headache. He will not get overwhelmed by a simple question-and-answer session with his son. Meredith deals with this incessant why, why, why all the time without falling apart, even when she doesn't feel well. He can do it, too.

Then why is he starting to tremble?

 _Eventually, you just have to admit you don't know, or they'll ask you why all the way into oblivion,_ Meredith explained the first time this happened _._

 _But …_ he said. _There is_ _ **so much**_ _I don't know._

Meredith shrugged. _It's not a competition to see how long you can go before you crumble. If you don't know, you don't know._ She hugged him, and then she whispered by his ear, smiling, _It took me a while to learn that one, if it makes you feel better._

"How can feewuh but not move good?" Bailey says, barreling onward in the silence. "Are dey diffent nevers?"

"I …." Derek winces as his mental train jumps the tracks. He …. What was he …? What? "Bailey, I have trouble understand you right now."

"De nevers!" Bailey says more insistently, like repeating nonsense will somehow make it less nonsensical.

Derek closes his eyes. "I … I … I don't know." He doesn't even know what the hell Bailey's asking anymore. Derek's head throbs. There was something about-

"Dada, de **nevers**. De nevers dat make your head go in your arm."

"Pause," Derek blurts. It feels like someone took a fork and raked it up the back of his skull or something. And everything is bright like a supernova. "Pause, please." God, this is so hard.

Bailey sighs, and he quiets down, at least, but not before he grumbles, "Mommy answer better."

He plops into Derek's lap like Derek's lap is his personal couch. Derek grunts at the impact. But Bailey's stopped peppering him with confusing questions, at least. Derek takes a moment to collect himself, until he comes down off that horrible mental ledge. When he opens his eyes, a vivid splash of color resolves over a long march of seconds. He feels slow. And wasted. And he can't remember ….

What were they doing?

He blinks slowly. Coloring. Right.

Bailey's grabbed a green crayon, and he's scribbling across the page with the unicorn on it. The one that Derek ruined. Bailey's green and Derek's purple mingle. Derek's reminded of an eggplant. Sort of.

"What are you draw?" Derek asks hoarsely, trying to … get himself … back. Back to feeling like this moment isn't cymbals crashing mercilessly in his ears. Like he doesn't have a fist squeezing his brain behind his left eye.

Bailey looks up at him with a bland _well-duh_ expression. "It a horn horse, Dada."

"Oh," Derek says. "Right."

The heat of blush suffuses his cheeks. He rests his head against his left palm and settles in to spectate while Bailey colors, rather than participate. Derek's tired of arm-wrestling with crayons. He's tired of talking. He's tired, and his head is throbbing like a gong. A lump forms in his throat. He glances at his watch. Just a few more hours, and then he can hand the reins back to Meredith for a while.

Bailey drops his crayon and looks up. "Dada, can we watch a movie?" he says, oblivious to Derek's turmoil.

Derek nods. He takes a deep breath. Just a few more hours.

* * *

The first time he sees Meredith's list, it's on the dining room table that evening, after Derek puts Zola to bed, and Derek's exhausted. He didn't get to do the parenting handoff he wanted. Things ended up going the other way around. Meredith had some take-home work to finish up in her office before tomorrow, so, instead of Derek handing Bailey off to Meredith, Meredith handed Zola off to Derek, and then Derek had two kids to worry about instead of one.

He couldn't say no, either, because, while he didn't feel great, he didn't feel irreparably awful, either. Meredith's taken care of their kids whether she's felt good or awful for almost two years, and he doesn't want her to stop feeling like she can rely on him when she's only just started relying on him at **all** again. But, now, his whole body aches, in addition to his head, and his head is starting to get that woozy shutting-down the-world-is-too-fast sensation that tells him it's bed time, whether he wants it to be or not.

Still ….

An uncapped pen rests on top of the list. The list is handwritten, and, to his eyes, it's a pile of gibberish. He squints at it. Water rushes in the kitchen, yanking at his attention like a pulled rope, and Derek looks up from the page to see Meredith filling up a glass of water. The faucet flashes underneath the light, and he hears a squeak that makes him wince as she cuts off the flow. He holds up the sheet to her as she pads back into the room, raising his eyebrows.

"Have plan start brainstorm invite wed," she says too fast for him to make sense of. "Work work." She grins. "Suggest?"

The page is covered with scrawl, both front and back. He can't do much more than identify where each word starts and ends, but this seems like .… This seems .… He swallows. "How many … is … this?"

"Family, friend, coworker, nanny." She makes a noise deep in her throat as she stares at the ceiling for a moment. "Sixty? Seventy? Big family. Okay?"

Seventy .… He can't …. He tries to picture seventy people sitting in this room, and he gets a clot of life so thick it can't move. They're all standing shoulder to shoulder, and all of them are staring at him, expecting him to say something. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Meredith steps behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Her lips press into his neck, and his eyelids droop as he relishes the touch. He sighs.

"Okay?" she says again softly. She said something else, too. Something else big enough to make a sentence. But .…

"This … very many," he says.

"Many?" she says, among other things, but he doesn't catch the rest.

He stares at the list. The letters all tangle. This is the first time he's conceptualized exactly how many people he'd be saying vows in front of. Before, all he's ever thought about is who he'd be saying the vows **to**. Before, the only person in his fantasy was Meredith. Reality crashes into him.

She steps around to face him. Her hands clutch his shoulders. "Derek," she says, long and slow this time. "Derek … is this too many people? We can make the ceremony smaller if this makes you uncomfortable. I just … I thought you wanted big. I thought you … wanted this to be a thing. And there wouldn't be any strangers. Just people you know. People you love."

"I … do want them see." He's not sure what to say. This is a lot. This is **a lot** a lot. "I .…"

She pulls away, but only to set her water glass on the table. "I feel like there's a 'but' that you're not saying," she says as she steps back into his orbit.

The lump is back in his throat, expanding, stuck like a tennis ball. He heard every word, but he has no idea what she just said. A butt to say? "… What is this mean?"

She frowns. "Derek, are you okay?"

He swallows. "No," he admits, deflating. "I … I have trouble today."

Her frown deepens. "Trouble with Bailey?"

"I …. I …. I-I." His head is really starting to throb. He rubs the bridge of his nose, and he sighs, pressing closer to her. He rests his chin on the top of her head. He stares into space. "Can we … not talk … now? Can we …? I n-need. No. No. N-no." He can't even finish the damned sentence.

"Sure," Meredith says, though he can tell all he's done is made her more concerned. "That's okay."

* * *

"This … red … car," Derek struggles to say, his index finger resting on the 5x7 flashcard nearest to him on the tabletop in Marie's bright, cheery office. Posters decorate the walls, and she's pushed aside a ceramic vase filled with yellow blossoms to cover her coffee table with the flashcards for this exercise.

Marie nods and smiles, and he can't help but feel bolstered and proud of himself when she says, "Good! That's really good, Derek." He offers a hesitant, wobbly grin in return. She points to a card on her side of the table. "What about this one? This one's a bit more tricky."

Derek stares at the picture. A long, narrow object, colored like metal. He knows what he's looking at. He knows it. He's seen it countless times. As a concept in his head, it's a complete, fully understood idea. He can see himself using it this morning. But the word is just … gone. It's gone. He knows he knows it, but it's gone.

The brief levity of his previous triumph fades. He clenches his teeth. It's so jarring when this happens. To be able to know he knows something, know it's locked away in his head somewhere, just … inaccessible, because some of his neurons are misfiring. Damn it.

He stares at the picture, willing the word to come to him. "I … use this for breakfast," he says.

Marie nods. "Yes."

"I … eat with this." He bites his lip, shifting in his seat. The leather sofa squeaks as he moves. Damn it. Why can't …? He **knows** this.

Marie nods again. "Yes. Do you know what it's called?"

"I … don't need to supervise kids."

Marie frowns. "Pardon?"

"When they use this, I …." He sighs. "It's not sharp. It will … not … h … hurt."

Understanding floods Marie's gaze. "Right," she says. "Do you need a hint?"

He yanks his fingers through his hair, shifting agitatedly. He wracks his brain. "It … is a …." Fork. Metal. Eat. Food. Cereal. Soup. Taste. Napkin. He trails away into silence, staring at the flashcard. "A …." **D** **amn** it. It's there. The word is there. He keeps reaching for it, but …. Napkin. Sharp. Blunt. Eat. Fork. Fork. Knife. Lucky Charms. "It's …." He stares at the ceiling, thinking. Plate. Bowl. China. Thanksgiving. Damn it. The more he thinks, the further his associations wander. Damn it.

"Derek, it's okay if you can't say it," Marie says, the words soft, soothing. "It's okay."

"I **know** it," he snaps. "I **know** this."

"I know you do," Marie says. "I've heard you say it before." She gives him a sympathetic look. "Do you need a break?"

"No," he says. "No, I …." He can't stop the growl that coils in his throat. "I hate this happen. This is so frustrate." Wrong. "Frustrate." Wrong again. Another growl. His skin feels hot, and he wants to push up from the sofa and throw something. "Frustrating!"

Marie nods. "I know it is, Derek, but this is something that's going to happen, and you need to learn to let it go. Just … let it go. You can't let forgetting a word ruin your mood."

"I **do** let it go. I …."

"You've been having trouble with that, today," Marie says softly.

He can't resist the urge anymore, and he shoves himself to his feet. He snatches the flashcard off the table and gesticulates at it. "This is … is … is easy word. I learn … learn … learned it months ago." He wants to rip the thing to pieces, but it's not his property. He throws the card, instead, and collapses back onto the black sofa, panting. He swallows and looks at his knees. "I try laugh not cry. I **try**. But .…"

"Is something bothering you today?" Marie prods, gaze full of concern.

Silence stretches for a moment.

"Is there something going on, Derek?" she says as she picks up the flashcard he sent flying. "Something that's causing you extra stress?"

"Yes," he admits, deflating. "Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He shakes his head. "No." That's the last thing he wants. He pulls his fingers through his hair. "No, I …." He's out of words. He deflates. He looks at the flashcard he threw with a defeated sigh. His gaze shifts to his knees. "I can't say this. I can't. Can we skip this?"

Marie nods. "That's okay. Really, it is, Derek."

She points to the card she's resettled on the table on her side. The stupid thing-he-can't-name. "So, let's ignore the objects on the flashcards for now, and work on the first part of this exercise. Remember the four words we're working on? This, that, these, those?"

He nods.

"What word would you use for this?"

He stares at the card. This, she said when she pointed to it. The word sticks in his head. "Th … this …."

Marie shakes her head. "No. Remember, this isn't next to you." This. She keeps saying this. "What's the word for something far away?"

He shakes his head, a frustrated non-word popping loose from his throat. "Th … this," he repeats, stuck like glue. "This." His head is stuck on this. "This."

"This means the object is close," Marie prods. "This object is far from you."

He stares at the flashcard, chest tightening. The word is a fleeting wisp in his head, and he can't grab onto it. She just said it a few minutes ago in that list of four, but it's gone, buried by this, this, this. Marie keeps saying this. This means. This object. But it's not this. It's …. It's …. He pulls his fingers through his hair.

"I can't." He's tired, and he just can't. His head his starting to hurt again.

Marie gives him an encouraging smile. "Yes, you can, Derek. You can do this. I'll give you a hint. It rhymes with cat."

He shifts back and forth in his seat. He stares at the ceiling, brain churning. You can do this. More this. "This."

"Rhymes with cat," Marie says again.

"Th …." Not this. Not this. Not this. "Th …." No. Not this. No, no, no. "Th …." He closes his eyes and thinks. And thinks. And thinks. And thinks. Not this. The second word she said. The second word. The second one. Not this, but, "That."

"That's it!" Marie exclaims. "You got it." She points to a flashcard close to him. "What's the word, here?"

"This," he says.

She points back to the card with the thing he can't say. "And this?"

He has to think for a long moment, because she just said the word this, and he's still having trouble disengaging himself from fixating on it, but he manages. "That." He feels like he's trying to jam a square through a circle.

"Excellent!" Marie says. She points to the card closest to him. "What about that?"

He rubs the bridge of his nose. She's doing this on purpose. Saying the opposite word. The one he isn't supposed to say. "Th …." A frustrated, bluster of breath escapes as he exhales. "This."

"Yay, you're getting this!" she says, but he's too tired at this point for her cheer to be infections. She points to the card closest to her. "This?"

"That." It's still an awful, bad tasting, awkward word on his tongue.

She nods. She points to the card closest to him. "That?"

"This."

"Good job, Derek," she praises. "That's great!" But he doesn't feel great. He feels raked raw. She continues, "This will get easier the more you say it."

He barely hears her. "Okay," he says, a lump in his throat. He should be rejoicing. He got the damned word. Instead, he wants to curl up in a dark, silent corner somewhere and just … not talk. He's tired, and his head hurts, and he doesn't want to be around people anymore.

"Do you want to be done, now?" Marie asks in a soft, understanding voice.

"Yes, please," he says, admitting defeat. He's tired, and he can't do this anymore today.

"Okay. See you Monday?" she says.

"Yes," he says. They exchange some pleasantries that are a halting blur he doesn't form any memories about. His head throbbing in time with his heart, he leaves her office feeling like he just lost a war. His shoulders slump, and he feels old, and brittle, and tired, and done.

That. It's a one-syllable word. It's easy.

So, why does saying it have to be so damned hard? Why does it feel so wrong?

Hell, why does any of it?

* * *

_The room feels like a football field, though it can't be that big. Flying buttresses lift the ceiling into the stratosphere. Sunlight slants into the space through stained glass windows with colors like confetti. Meredith stands atop a set of six marble-_

* * *

Someone knocking on the bedroom door wakes him up on Saturday morning, and he flinches into awareness like he got poked by a stick. Meredith groans beside him. He hasn't gotten enough sleep. His head is swimming, and the world feels like it's moving about five times faster than he can keep up with. His perception of the passing moments spreads like oozing molasses. He hears her pushing back the covers on her side, hears a faint cherubic, "Daddy, when breakfast?" Another knock. "Mommy?"

"One second, Zozo," Meredith calls from somewhere closer. "I'm coming."

The more he hears, the more his stomach starts to churn. He's almost asleep again when he feels her warmth radiating in his space. She's looking at him. When she puts her hand on his shoulder and whispers something at him, it doesn't make sense.

He squints at her. All he sees is blur. And that's when the sword pushes through his skull, and his head starts to throb in earnest. He sits up with a groan. Her palm rests against his back, the warmth of her skin seeping through his t-shirt.

"Derek, are you coming down with something?" she says, the words interspersed with glacial pauses. He has a chance to blink and frown at her before she shakes her head and curses under her breath. "I mean sick. Are you sick?" She lets him go, but only to touch the back of her palm to his forehead. "No fever," she adds.

"Head … h … hurt," he manages with a low rasp, and the next few moments are an incomprehensible blur.

His codeine isn't even settled in his churning stomach by the time everything is going black.

He sleeps in a drug-induced, pain-blinded daze.

* * *

As far as migraines go, this wasn't a bad one, or a long one. He was able to sleep instead of lie there all day, wishing he could die, and by the time dinner rolls around, the wave of punishment is already receding to a dull throb. He's feeling achy. Slow. Spacey. Dumb. But not overcome. Still, the idea of interacting with their kids right now makes him want to curl into a fetal ball, so he stays in his and Meredith's bedroom, sitting in their bed, staring into space, petting Felix.

"Hey!" Meredith says with a big smile when she comes in to check on him. "You're up! I'm glad you're feeling better."

"Yes," he says, the word listless.

She shrugs out of her t-shirt, which has a red stain splashed across the chest. "Dinner preparation mishap," she explains with a wry grin as she grabs a fresh t-shirt, though he didn't ask about the stain and didn't wonder. "Do you want anything to eat?" she says as her head pokes through the top of the shirt, and she pulls it down to her waist. "I could make you some soup?"

The idea of food in his stomach is about as horrible as the idea of their shriek-y, giggle-y, high-pitched children playing in his vicinity. "No," he says, the word flat.

She frowns at that. "Okay," she says. "Well, let me know if you change your mind."

He nods, and she turns to leave the room to go take care of their kids. The kids' intermittent, distant laughter, still audible through the closed door, makes him feel like a slug, not contributing. But ….

"I watch … tomorrow," he says before she's closed the door.

She turns back with a frown. "Watch what?"

He swallows. "Kid. I …." He wants to tell her she can rest tomorrow, and he'll do the work, and he's sorry he was useless as a spouse today, but he can't assemble that many words in a row right now. "Watch … kid."

Her gaze softens. She seems to understand conciliating sympathy will just make him feel worse about everything. All she says when she replies is, "Okay," without a hint of placation, just … acknowledgement. Just … _I know you're a qualified parent, and I believe you._ It's a subtle vote of confidence that he appreciates.

A crash breaks their connection and makes him flinch. It's followed by the phrase no parent likes to hear. "Uh oh …."

Meredith sighs and disappears into the hallway, closing the door behind her with a soft click.

Derek pulls a pillow to his chest and hugs it while he lies on his side, breathing in and out in slow rasps. Felix curls up beside him, a little too far to reach to pet. Derek can't bring himself to move closer. He can't bring himself to function at all right now. He doesn't even care what the "uh oh" was about.

He just feels … wrecked.

* * *

Meredith puts the kids down and climbs into bed beside him around nine. She fluffs up a bunch of pillows, smashes them against the headboard, and pulls her laptop into her lap. He's still on his side, staring at nothing as she settles. She gives him a concerned look, but she says nothing. It's the kindest gift she can give him. Peace and quiet.

He drifts.


	3. Week Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all! I'm so terribly sorry for the long wait for this chapter. My editor had a family emergency, so my planned schedule got a little screwy for a while, there. Anyway, thank you so so much for the feedback, everybody. I'll be replying individually, where possible, asap :) Truly, I appreciate everyone who takes the time to leave a note, whether it's short or long. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this part. The snowball is definitely starting to roll downhill, now.

_The room feels like a football field, though it can't be that big. Flying buttresses lift the ceiling into the stratosphere. Sunlight slants into the space through stained glass windows with colors like confetti. Meredith stands atop a set of six marble stairs, decked in white from head to toe. She holds out her hand for him, and he smiles. Her palm is warm, and he squeezes it until her knuckles mash together. He's too happy – is it possible to be too happy? – and he feels like his body is lifting off the floor._

" _Good news, man," Mark mutters over Derek's shoulder._

" _What?" Derek replies._

" _I didn't forget the ring."_

_Derek frowns. "You're the best man. You forgetting the ring was a possible scenario?"_

" _Beats me," Mark says. "Up until thirty seconds ago, I thought you guys weren't doing the ring thing."_

" _We weren't," Meredith says. "Where did that come from?"_

" _Who cares?" says Cristina from behind Meredith. "Can we get this show moving?"_

_Zola's familiar giggle echoes off stone walls. Derek turns to peer at all the faces in the audience. Zola's in the first row, sitting on his mother's lap. His mom's eyes are watering. He waves, and Mom gives a tiny nod back to him. Zola's smile widens, displaying a tiny array of tiny teeth._

" _Do you, Derek, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" says Miranda, who stands one step above Derek and Meredith, and Derek turns back._

" _I do," he says. He pulls the back of Meredith's palm to his lips. "Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your life will be my life."_

" _Do you promise never to drive like a fool again?" Miranda asks._

_Derek blinks. "What?"_

" _Blah, blah, I now pronounce you," Cristina says with an eye roll._

_Mark claps. "Speech! Speech!"_

_Derek rolls his eyes and glances at Meredith, but she gives him a nod like she wants to hear it, too. A speech. Well, fine then. He can give a speech. He brushes off his lapel and turns to face the crowd. Everybody is staring._

" _I want to thank you all for being here," he says, words rolling easily off his tongue. "I know you're busy, so I'll try to make this quick. As you may have heard, I've been appointed the new interim Chief of Surgery. It's my personal goal to make this transition as smooth as possible …."_

* * *

His eyelids leak open to dim, gray, pre-morning light. Meredith's asleep beside him, her head resting on his chest. He wants to stay where he is, but he can't. He's been in bed forever, and he feels like he might burst. He tries to sneak out from under her, but only his weaker right side is free, and he can't get leverage to pull out from under her, not with any kind of grace. He kisses her, pulling his fingers through her soft hair.

"Meredith," he whispers.

She makes a low-pitched, resentful noise.

"Meredith, I need … up."

With a deep, thick sigh, she rolls away from him, freeing him. He sits up, climbs free of the heap of blankets, and steps into the chilly air. He heads for the bathroom to relieve himself.

By the time he returns to their bed, intent on crawling back in and falling asleep again until the kids demand attention, Meredith's sitting up, eyes scrunched, hair sticking up all over. He glances at the clock. 5:30 a.m. Way too early to be sentient on a weekend.

"I'm sorry to wake," he says. The headache is all gone, now, but he doesn't feel whole, yet, and words are … difficult. "Go sleep."

But she shakes her head. "S'okay." She pushes back the covers and stands up to stretch. "I'm up now, I guess."

"Sorry," he says again as guilt constricts.

She offers him a sleepy-eyed grin. "Eh, I'm used to it."

He blinks the mental cobwebs away. "Want breakfast?" he says. "I can make." He woke her up on one of the few days she has to sleep late. The least he can do is feed her.

She thinks for a moment and nods.

"Egg or pancake?" he says.

"Pancakes," she replies. She steps into his space, rises up on her tiptoes, and kisses him. "You always make the best pancakes."

* * *

"I thought you say the Post-it is our wedding," Derek says as he flips pancake number two. The batter sizzles.

Meredith sits on a stool at the island in the kitchen, syrup-covered plate already cleared of pancake number one. Coffee burbles in the pot, but it's not quite ready yet. She gives him a bleary, not-yet-caffeinated look and frowns.

"It was our wedding, yes," she says. "Why?"

Derek shakes his head. "But I remember, now," he says. He edges the spatula around the pancake to peek underneath. The batter is hardly browned, and the cake sticks a little to the spatula. Not ready, yet. "I walk down a long … empty .…" The word escapes him, and he's left moving his lips futilely as he tries to remember how to speak the pictures in his head. The migraine yesterday laid waste to lots of important synapses that seem still to be broken, despite him being pain free.

"Hallway?" Meredith suggests.

"No … I …." He sighs. He checks the pancake again. Still not done, yet. He turns his back to the stove, leans against the counter, and folds his arms. "I don't know word. You are at the end in … white dress. Chairs are left and right."

"An aisle?"

"I don't know," he says with a shrug. "I don't know this word."

"The only time I ever wore a wedding dress was when Izzie made me try one on, and that was in her hospital room," Meredith says, careful to say the words slowly for him. She frowns, thinking up at the ceiling for a moment. "I don't **think** that room was big enough to be called long," she muses. "And it wasn't empty. Alex was there. And …. And there **definitely** wasn't a surplus of chairs." Her commune with the ceiling ends, and her pretty, morning-gray eyes come back to bear on him. "Also, I'm pretty sure you weren't there to see it."

"But … I remember you wear the dress," he says. He can see it. He **just** saw it while he was asleep. Right there in the space behind his eyes. It's so vivid, he could reach out and touch the fabric. It's lacy and looks soft or … silky? And the white is creamy-colored, like letter-writing paper. "You are … very pretty. You have … have .…" He shakes his head as the heat of frustration starts unfurling like a sail in his body. "I don't know word. See-through hat?"

"Veil," she interjects.

He nods. "Yes, this. And Mark is clap. Clapping. He has … a ring, and I give to you."

Meredith regards him for a long, silent moment. Something in her eyes says he hurt her just now. Somehow. He's not sure what he did. _I'm sorry_ , he wants to say, but he gets stuck as the path between his head and his mouth short circuits. He stares at the ceiling, struggling to find a way to push out a sound. Anything. Any word. For a moment, his vocal cords won't even engage, and all he can do is wait for his body to start working again. It's a frustrating state of being.

"Derek, your pancake's smoking."

He sighs and turns to find a blackened mess in the pan. He scrapes it out and puts it on his plate rather than give a ruined one to her. He's not hungry, anyway. He pours a fresh dollop of batter into the pan.

"Maybe, you're substituting me for Addison," Meredith suggests in a hesitant tone when he doesn't fill the silence. She wraps her feet around the chair legs, and she looks down at her plate like she doesn't want to meet his gaze. "Addison is a girly white-dress-wearing, shiny-ring-toting kind of person. I'm not."

He closes his eyes and thinks for a long moment. Addison. Addison. Addison. He can't say that. It's like … he can't even remember how to make an A sound. He can't make his tongue move the right way. All he accomplishes is mute panting. He presses his lips together and gives up on making A sounds for now.

"M …," he manages. "M …." And then the floodgates open again. "My … one … wife," he says, struggling. That's not quite right, and Meredith's hurt look deepens. "One wife." He grimaces. He's lost any semblance of tone in the effort to eject coherency from his lips, but … he can't help that right now. He's not saying what he wants to say, and the thing he **is** saying is wrong enough that it's making Meredith hurt. "One … f-f-first. First." He feels like he's spitting out food or something. " **First wife**."

"Yeah," Meredith says. "Her."

"But … M …." Meredith. "I don't … n … n … **know** … this person."

He's seen her picture, now. This Addison person who he supposedly married and supposedly lived with for a decade. She's pretty, and she has a nice smile. But the pictures beget no feelings for him. He can't remember anything about her beyond a fleeting, spoken, _Derek, let's buy it. Let's buy this house_. He can remember those words – he can hear them – but he can't even remember the house.

"I don't …," he struggles to continue. He shifts closer to Meredith. "I don't know her." He gives her a hopeful, encouraging smile. "I know … you."

"It's okay if it's her," Meredith says. "I mean …."

"But is **not** her," he insists. The pancake batter bubbles up across the surface. He shoves the spatula underneath and flips the pancake before returning his attention to Meredith. "You. Zo Mom's lap." A sounds are back, at least. "Mom … chair. I see you … white dress. I **see** you."

Conflict marches across Meredith's face. Like she's debating … something. Her ambivalence solidifies into determination, though. She slides off the stool, steps close, and wraps her arms around him. "I don't think that happened, Derek," she says in a low, calm, even tone.

"But it … real space." He taps his temple. "Here. I see."

She pushes her fingers through his hair. "I know this is hard for you to conceptualize, because you're the one it's happening to," she says. She swallows. She presses her fingertips against the runnel in his skull. "But the way your brain was hurt, some of what you think are memories are actually dreams."

He blinks. Something in his chest constricts. No.

"Pancake," she murmurs, and he jerks his attention to the pan. She warned him before it burned, this time. He flips it.

"No," he says, swallowing. "This is memory. I know."

"Derek, yes," Meredith says. She strokes his scar. "This is a symptom of your brain injury. It happens sometimes to people who get hit there. Your frontal lobe was-"

"But … I **remember** ," he says, though he feels like he's sinking into the floor.

"Yeah, I know," she says. Her embrace tightens. "I know you think you do. Pancake."

He sighs, and he scoops it out of the pan to put on her plate. Somehow, it's not burnt.

"Are you okay?" she says, the words soft. "Pancake smiting is kind of … Meredith-y."

His body still isn't working right. He hates this. He hates that his ability to communicate sometimes just … drops out at random. Like when their cable modem stops functioning, and he needs to reboot it. Except his brain has no reboot button, and all he can do is wait until it functions correctly again.

Silence stretches.

"How is … f … false?" he demands when the floodgates open. "I .… I remember. Walk. You smile. … I remember, now. I never … do before."

She bites her lip, eyes watering as she peers at him. She turns off the burner behind him. "You remember it, now, because you dreamed it just now. It wasn't real."

The world is going blurry, and he has no idea how to respond. He trusts her. He trusts her with everything, and what reason would she have to lie, anyway? If she says it, it must be true, but ….

"Did I did … before?" he says. "Remember … false?"

"Sometimes," she admits.

"You never say," he says. "You always …." He doesn't have the word.

She gives him an unhappy look. "I tried once, but you started getting upset. Remember the thing with coaching Zola's soccer team?"

"This isn't real?" he says, sentence ending in an upset rasp as his throat closes.

"No, Derek, it isn't. And I didn't think there was much point in upsetting you when your ability to differentiate isn't something that's fixable. Dr. Wyckoff said not to worry about it if it wasn't interfering with your life, and it wasn't. It's not."

He swallows. "Please, say."

"Okay," she says with a nod. She rubs his arm. "Derek, do you …? Is that what you want, after all?"

"What?"

"To renew our vows in a church with a priest," she clarifies. "With me in a white dress."

He stares at his feet. Ten minutes ago … he might have said yes. A lump fills his throat. "No," he manages. He thinks about it. The big church. Meredith reaching for him. Him talking, unimpeded. Mark. He has nearly fifty years of scattershot, helter-skelter, disconnected memories, and Mark is in a lion's share. Mark and Meredith.

He misses Mark so much. He died, and Derek doesn't even remember it. It's like he was robbed of his chance to say goodbye, because the goodbye is gone. It's just … gone. He swallows. He liked seeing Mark again. He liked saying his vows. He liked that Meredith was so happy.

"I … like … like … liked this memory," Derek says. "I .…"

Her grip on his shoulder tightens as she squeezes him. "It's okay to let it be one."

"But you say … not real," he rasps.

"So? Your feelings about it are real," she says. "And, if that's something you need … why not?"

He stares into space. "I wish I can know … difference." What if **none** of it is real?

"You can always ask me," Meredith says.

"This only work when you … you … you." He resists the urge to lash out and hit something. "What about … for you not there?"

"Like what?" Meredith says.

"Mark … help propose," Derek says. "I remember … flower. Red f-f-flower. Candle. Bear. And .… But you say … elevator."

"You tried to propose a few times," she says. "It's possible you're remembering something that really happened. I mean … that sounds plausible to me, at least." She frowns. "Well, except for the bear. Like … a real bear?"

"Stuffed animal," he says.

"Oh," she replies. "Okay, then that's really weird, but it still works within the bounds of possibility."

"How are you … n … know difference?" he says. "Dream from real?"

She frowns. "I just … do, Derek. There's a pretty unmistakable 'unreality' feel to a dream."

"What does this feel like?" he says.

She rests her head against his shoulder. "I think that's what got broken for you, Derek," she says in a soft voice. "You can't always feel or judge that anymore. The unreal-ness."

"I hate this confuse," he whispers. He sounds like an idiot, and he's tired of wrestling with himself. He's tired. His fists clench.

"I know."

"It is … f-feel … real," he says.

She nods. "I know."

"Some … fake," he says. But he's being nonsensical at this point. He knows it. And he'll never be able to convey what he really means. He closes his eyes, trying not to picture things from before, but the pictures bowl him over, anyway. "I want … b … back," he manages.

"I know," is all she says, soft, quiet, supporting.

She holds him, and he stands there, peering through his eyelashes at nothing. He wonders what else in his head is wrong. What else is fake. What else never happened. He thought things were better. He thought he was getting a handle on everything.

Now, though, everything feels like it's unraveling.

"I'm real," she says like she's read his mind. "And I'm right here."

"Thank for .…" His voice trails away. "I .… I d-don't …." He sighs when he hits another roadblock. "Word. G … g … g …."

He gives up. He can't do this right now.

She pulls her fingers through his hair. "You're welcome," is all she says, like he hasn't thrown coherency out the window. He presses his nose into her neck and inhales. She gets him, whether the words are finding escape from his verbal traffic jams or not, and this is something he needs.

He's not sure where he'd be, now, almost two years post-accident, if he didn't have Meredith. He licks his lips. "Love," he manages to rasp.

Her grip tightens. She kisses him. "Go back to sleep," she suggests. "I think you need it."

He doesn't disagree.

He feels like he's been kicked in the gut.

* * *

He doesn't end up watching the kids on Sunday like he wanted. He spends most of the day curled up in bed as an unhelpful lump, too upset to do much more than lie there, wishing he could sleep, but, instead, doubting every single memory he has. Meredith keeps checking on him, keeps asking him if his migraine's relapsing, and every time, he finds himself asking her about something else.

Was the baseball game he remembers going to with his dad real?

What about that time Mark convinced him to help TP his football coach's house?

But Meredith can't corroborate these two memories, because they're both pre-Meredith. His dad is dead, so Derek will never know if the baseball game was real. Mark is dead, so Derek will never know if they really TPed a house.

Did Meredith **really** have a kidney in a jar, sitting on her nightstand?

Meredith laughs and tells him, "Yes. You gave it to me."

He doesn't remember that part. All he remembers is the glow at night. And, now, despite ferreting out a true thing in his mess of maybe, he feels worse, because, from the look on her face, the kidney was an important gift, and he remembers nothing of the giving of it. All he can think is, why? Why on earth would he turn a kidney into a present?

What about … the black dress? Was that a real dress?

Meredith's not sure what dress he means. He's not sure, either. They look through her closet together, and can't find the one he's thinking of.

What about the time Derek woke up on a gurney in the ER?

Meredith freezes. "You remember waking up in an ER?"

"Only some," he says. "Some seconds. It is … dis … disorient. I see ceiling. An alarm yell. I'm scare. Scared. Then .…" Nothing. He shrugs. Most of his memories are like that. Seconds. Impressions. Fleeting bits of out-of-context flotsam that might make passing sense, someday, if he ever gets some real life hints.

Her mouth opens and closes. And opens and closes. She swallows. "Maybe … it was after your motorcycle accident," she guesses. But she sounds so doubtful and horrified and hopeful all at once, and, now, he's left wondering .…

Was it after his motorcycle accident? **What** motorcycle accident? Or … was it after **the** accident? Or the storm-born migraine he had a few months ago? Was it some other ER trip from his childhood? Or, maybe, he's just dreaming all this shit up, because he wants to fill in blanks so badly.

He doesn't know. He'll **never** know.

Eventually, Meredith stops trying to reason with him – not that he can blame her – and she encourages him to go for a walk. Get some fresh air. Clear his head. "Go have an endorphin rush or whatever."

He leaves the house, but he's too tired to walk, even with his cane supporting his weight. He thinks, maybe, he'll just stand on the front walk in the drizzle for a while, long enough to get wet and convince Meredith he went somewhere, and then he'll go back inside. And that's when he sees his Land Rover sitting in the driveway under a blue tarp.

He pulls out his keys.

* * *

He sits behind the steering wheel in his old SUV, hands clutching the leather steering wheel, while rain drops pock the thick layer of dirt on the windshield. His old car is gone, destroyed, shrapnel, but his Land Rover has been sitting in the driveway since before he came home, and, today, he just … needed .… He's not sure what he needed.

He closes his eyes.

Nothing comes to him. Not a wisp, not a full-fledged recollection of himself behind the wheel, nothing. The last day he drove is a blank. He can't even remember turning his key in the ignition, let alone remember why he would park his car across .…

He sighs.

The Land Rover is cold and silent and offers him no answers.

He's not sure why he expected anything else.

He pulls out his billfold and stares at his identification card. It's not a license, anymore, just identification. His license was taken away by the state. He traces the picture on the card. It's an old one, taken before the accident. His hair is less gray. And his crows feet aren't as pronounced.

He doesn't remember having the picture taken. He doesn't remember the DMV. He doesn't remember moving to Seattle, or anything about the car he smashed. The only reason he knows he owns the SUV he's sitting in is because Meredith told him it's his, and that he uses it on camping trips. But he doesn't remember any camping trips. And he doesn't remember how he got here, to this place in his life, where the man looking back at him in mirrors is almost fifty. He doesn't remember how he became a husband, or a father of two children, or a man with a dead best friend.

Fifty years on this earth, and his recollections equate to mere hours. Days, maybe.

And, now, he's found out that even those few hours might not be real.

A lump forms in his throat as he stares at his old self, staring back at him from the photo he doesn't remember having taken.

The rain plinks against the windshield.

The space in front of his face splits in two as his eyes lose focus, and he stares … beyond.

He hits the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. Once. Again. The fire starts like this, two small sparks showering from struck flint. Then all he knows is inferno. He's wordless, but he yells. Over and over. At nothing. At everything. He hits the steering wheel until his hands feel bruised, and his chest burns like he's spent the last five minutes spitting fire, and he's out of breath and gasping.

And then he can't be here anymore. Not inside this skeleton of a life he doesn't remember. He just can't.

He snatches his ID card from the seat where it fell when he threw his tantrum, stuffs it into his wallet, and climbs out of the car, back into the rain.

In the time it takes him to shuffle-walk back to the house, the downpour douses his flames.

As he steps over the threshold, all he feels is cold.

"Did you have a good walk?" Meredith wants to know.

"No," he says. And he heads back to their bedroom to hibernate in the dark.

* * *

Derek wades through the week a bit like he's drowning in it. Or, perhaps, a bit like he's already drowned, but been resuscitated. He's not sleeping enough. Which results in him being exhausted and headache-y and preoccupied, and everybody is noticing. On Thursday, Meredith ends up dumping Bailey in daycare at work, because Melody's not available on that day anymore, and Derek can't deal with him. He just can't. And, though it kills him to admit defeat and ask Meredith to handle Bailey for him that day, he can't in good conscience **not** ask her, because keeping Bailey safe is his **job** , and he can't keep Bailey safe when he can barely drag himself out of bed. He spends most of Thursday lying down in the dark. Friday morning, he's up and around again, but … he feels like the walking dead.

"I'm sorry I told you," Meredith says, tone glum and regretful. She watches him shave while she combs her hair. "I shouldn't have told you."

The winter days are short, and it's still pitch black outside, despite the morning. The bathroom light is sharp and hurts his eyes. He shakes his head and splashes his face with water, washing away cut stubble and foamy scum. "No, I should …. I should know …." Number. Fraction. Portion. Very. Few. Few. "M … most … is not real."

"Derek," Meredith says in a measured tone, "it's not most. It's not even a lot. Really, we're talking like one time in ten, if that, and that's assuming you remember your dream in the first place."

"I didn't … meaned … most." He sighs. He dries his face on his towel. "I can't …."

"Oh," she says.

He swallows and hobbles back into the bedroom. "Meredith …," he begins as he grabs clean clothes from the dresser. She looks at him. "How sure feel … surgery if … someone say kill one time in ten?"

He thinks, maybe, he's gotten his point across when her eyes say she understands what he said, but she still doesn't answer him. After dropping off a babble-y Zola, she drives him to rehab in silence.

* * *

Stewart and Sarah take the kids on Saturday for a spontaneous zoo trip, and the house is quiet. Derek relaxes on the couch in the living room. He watches a basketball game on mute – some college game with teams he doesn't recognize – while he curls up underneath a polar fleece blanket. Felix sleeps in Derek's lap on top of the fleece.

Derek's felt like he's been an inch from some kind of horrible precipice all week. Like he's standing there at an edge, looking at the windy valley below, debating whether to jump.

Sleeping until two, followed by such a lazy day, though, has helped even out his mood. Maybe … his melancholy was just his tiredness manifesting in weird ways. He doesn't handle tired very well anymore, and he's not resilient to sudden change.

When he hears a clank in the kitchen during halftime, he doesn't think anything of it. Felix's purr is a distracting, soothing rumble. Meredith joins him on the couch a few minutes later.

"Hey," she says when she lifts up his feet to claim the left couch cushion. She resettles his feet in her lap.

He smiles at her as he strokes the cat. "You want to watch … not basket?" He swallows. Words are still … not feeling natural in his mouth. They never do, but today, the feeling is exaggerated, like it has been all week. "Basketball?"

She waves a hand dismissively at him and pulls a glossy paperback off the end table. "Nope," she says as she cracks open the book to somewhere in the middle. She wraps a hand around his foot and squeezes. He scrunches his toes. "I just want to read my book while I sit in your general vicinity."

He can't read the page numbers at this distance, or the title. "What are … you read?" he says.

She holds up the book to show him the cover.

He snorts. _Outlander._ He should have known from the distinctive color. "Again?"

She shrugs. "I happen to like this book."

He gives her an affectionate look, and then turns back to the television, Felix still curled up in his lap. "Whatever … floats … boat," he manages, and she laughs, which is what he intended, and it feels … good.

He feels … better. He doesn't hurt, and he's not tired anymore. Talking isn't as natural as it should be – which is still, admittedly, not all that natural – but it isn't a torturous chore today, either. He has his wife. His family, whom he loves. And the sound of a purring cat, well, that's a spear against even the worst sort of sadness.

"Meredith?" he says.

She looks up. "Hmm?"

"Tell me … an unreal thing."

Her eyes narrow. "You mean a fake memory?"

"Yes," he says. "I can tell between now and before. Why can't I tell before from fake?"

She regards him for a long moment. "Those are two separate differentiations," she says. "And your ability to tell the difference isn't **completely** broken, or you'd be …." She swallows. Her look is regretful.

"Crazy," he says.

"No," she's quick to say. "Just …." She can't seem to think of any way to describe it. She sighs. "Less lucid."

"Some people at rehab are crazy," he says.

"But you," she says. She sets her book back on the end table and scoots closer to him. He pushes his feet off the couch and sits up, so he can hold her. Felix moves off Derek's lap and resettles on the sofa back by Derek's head. "Are not."

"Okay," he says as they curl up under the blanket together. "But … tell me an unreal thing. Beside Zola soccer and … wedding."

She thinks for a moment. "That time you rode a horse in the hospital," she says.

He frowns. "This is not a memory?"

"No," she says.

He thinks about the moment. Reviews it. Turns it over in his head. It feels like any other memory to him. He can see himself. The horse is purple, like Zola's Twilight Sparkle. He puts his foot in the stirrup, swings up onto the horse's back, and clops through the oncology wing.

"Derek, if I told you I rode a horse in the hallways at Seattle Grace, you'd think I was joking," she says.

"… Yes," he admits.

"And you know real horses don't come in purple."

He looks at his lap. "Yes." And, yet … he can still see himself. Riding a purple horse in the hospital. And it feels real.

She looks up at him. "See?" She rises to her knees and touches his forehead. "You can tell the difference when it comes to judging reality as it's happening now, just like any normal person." She snorts. "In fact, I bet if you saw a purple pony right now, you'd think, 'Good god, I need to lay off the LSD.'"

"LSD?" he says.

She kisses him. "It's a drug. It makes you see things that aren't there."

"Oh."

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses him again. "All I'm saying is … please, don't freak out about it. Okay? I mean, it **is** kinda freaky, and I don't blame you for being completely weirded out right now – I was weirded out when I realized what was happening, too – just …."

"Not worth … much upset," he says, finishing her sentence for her.

She nods. "Exactly." She pushes her fingers through his hair and smiles at him.

"I wish this isn't happen to me," he says.

Her smile shallows out. "I know. I wish it didn't, either, but … it did."

_And we have to deal with it_ , she doesn't say. He sighs. "I know." He gives her a brittle smile in return. "I … I … I will." He shakes his head. "I will be okay. I …. Hmm." He's not even sure how to say the rest, so he doesn't try. He's not interested in frustration today. Or feeling sorry for himself. He wants to laugh, not cry. He nuzzles her. "I'm glad you here."

She licks her lips, and her gaze takes on a predatory glint. "Stewart and Sarah aren't due back with the kids for a few hours, you know," she says.

He grins. "I do know. I am thinking this also." Except. His nose wrinkles, and he sits up. He frowns. "Meredith, do you smell burn?"

"Crap!" she blurts so loud he flinches. She scrambles off the couch and jets into the kitchen. A woeful, "No!" follows before he's even risen to his feet.

* * *

He stares at the mess in the kitchen as he approaches. Yellow batter pools at the bottom of a mixing bowl. The batter has spilled prongs of goo over the lip of the bowl. The prongs grow almost transparent the farther from the lip of the bowl that they reach, and he can see the bright orange of the bowl underneath at the ends. A half-used carton of eggs sits open by the sink. Dirty measuring cups and spoons fill up the sink.

"The timer said thirty minutes!" Meredith says as she pulls a muffin tin from the oven, and the burning smell he pegged from the living room multiplies. The faintest hint of smoke billows from the muffins, but not enough to set off the smoke alarm. She puts the tin on a potholder on the countertop and grabs an open box of Betty Crocker mix that's sitting on the counter by the stove. Her eyes dart frantically left to right as she reads the box, and then she jabs her finger at the box. "Thirty minutes!" she says. "It says! It says so right here!"

"Oven run hot," he says, frowning.

She blinks at him. "What?"

"The …." The word drops out from underneath him, and he can't say what he wants. He shifts toward the oven and points to the thermostat. "This. This wrong. Did you read other one?"

She frowns. "What other one?"

He pulls open the oven door she banged shut with her hip. Inside, on the bottom rack of the oven, he's perched a little metal thermometer that Melody helped him pick out on Amazon. It's a semi-circular one about the size of a silver dollar, with a pointed needle that swings left to right across an arcing array of numbers, from 0 to 600. He points to the thermometer. "This."

" **That's** what that thingy is for?" she says.

"Yes."

She goggles for a moment. "That's the stupidest thing I ever heard!"

He frowns. "Sorry …."

She deflates with a sigh. "Not you," she's quick to say. "The oven. What kind of oven has such a crappy thermometer that you need a second freestanding one sitting inside?"

He opens his mouth to reply, but she holds up her index finger, shushing him. "Wait, don't answer that. That was rhetorical. I don't need to know how kitchen clueless I am." She glances at her muffins. They're not burnt to a crisp, but they're ringed with black, burnt edges. They'll still be edible, but …. "Derek, they're ruined." She gives the oven a mean glare. And then looks back at him, comprehension dawning. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Wait. Is **that** why I'm always burning crap when I try to bake? Because our oven thermometer is horrible?"

"Yes, some," he admits.

She gapes. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

He shrugs. "You stop baking all things before I figure."

"Well, how come **you** never burnt anything?"

"I … check instead … leave."

"Man," she says with a woeful sigh. "Talk about having your reality altered. Maybe, I'm not such a sucky chef, after all." She steps back to the muffin tin, frowning. "Are these … salvageable?" She glances at him. "I mean, can we save them?"

He shrugs. "Maybe." He grabs a butter knife from the utensil drawer and pops one of the muffins loose from the tin. He sets it on the counter, frowning at it. It looks … not just burnt, but … odd. Kind of like the batter hasn't risen as much as it should. When he tries the slice off the burnt parts, the whole muffin breaks apart into dry crumbs.

"That doesn't seem normal," Meredith says.

He frowns. "Did you forget egg?"

She blinks. "Egg?"

He picks up the muffin box and points to the picture of the eggs. The recipe calls for two.

She stares at the picture for a long moment, and then her gaze wanders to the carton of eggs on the counter. She lifts up the lid on the carton, peering at the contents, lips moving like she's counting something, and then she slumps. "I am," she says. "I'm a crappy, awful, horrible cook."

He gives her a dismissive wave and an affectionate smile. "You can ask me for making muffins. You don't need to do this."

"I know, it's just … I wanted to make these, and you weren't feeling well, anyway."

"You should ask," he insists. "I can say no if …." He swallows. "If I feel bad."

"I know," she admits woefully.

"Why do you want …." His words leave him. He closes his eyes and thinks for a moment. "Why do you … want … m-make these instead … me?"

She regards him for a moment. "The PTA meeting is tonight," she says. "Remember?"

"Oh," he says. He nods. "Yes, I remember." He glances at the mess. "Do they ask for muffins?"

She drops the folder she's using as a fan and moves to the sink. "No, but … these things always have snacks. I mean I think they always have snacks. Not that I'd know for sure, because I've never gone, but … Amelia suggested a snack!"

"I thought you say PTA is parent teacher."

Meredith glances at him. "It is."

"Then how does Amelia know what PTA does?" he says, frowning.

"I don't know," Meredith says. "Look, I know it was stupid."

"It's not stupid," he says.

Meredith lifts the dirty mixing bowl, frowns at it, and sighs, defeated. She drops it back into the sink basin, where it thunks against the metal drain. "I guess I thought .… It's my first PTA meeting. I wanted .…" She grimaces. "I don't know what I wanted."

He regards her for a long moment. "You want to show them you can," he says. It's a desire he can empathize with. A lot.

She nods. "I guess." Another sigh. "I suck at cooking."

"You cook many times without problem," he says.

She sighs. "Not if it involves dough or batter or whatever."

"Or oven," he interjects.

She snorts. "Shut up." She jabs her thumb at the thermostat. "That thing is a ringer. It's not fair, damn it!"

Which … he can't exactly refute, so he grins. "You good at many other thing."

"Unfortunately," she says, grumbling, "being able to yank out a gallbladder has nothing to do with parenting children." She turns on the faucet. "If it did, I'd be a rockstar mother."

He steps closer, lining up his larger body against her back. He reaches around her and picks up the dirty bowl, lifting it into the spray to wash the old batter away. "I will help you," he says.

She looks up at him, gaze softening. "You don't have to."

He shrugs. "I want to," he says. He kisses her cheek. "You are already rockstar mother, though."

She snorts, and they get to work on the muffins.

* * *

The gym at Briar Cliff Elementary is bright and airy, but the acoustics are horrid. The already boisterous gathering inside sounds even louder than it is, because everything is repeated over and over as the noise bounces off the walls. There are a lot more people crammed in the gym than he imagined there would be when he volunteered to go to this PTA thing, and something about the overhead lights in the gym – they're too … sharp.

Between the eye strain and the constant pounding of voices against his eardrums, his malaise from the past week comes sweeping back like the crash of a wave. His head is starting to ache, and he's having trouble hearing individual words when Meredith speaks to him. Instead, anything she says turns into gobbledygook.

He thought – too optimistically – that he could peel away and practice …. Practice talking to strangers. Short sentences to camouflage himself. Like he's been doing. But … after repeated what, what, what, whats, Meredith's started talking very slowly to him, exaggerating her lip movements, and even then, he's having a difficult time following her words, or anything, so he's been too afraid to leave her orbit.

It's embarrassing.

And frustrating.

Meredith says something unintelligible, gesturing to Derek's empty plastic cup.

He sighs. "… What?"

"Want. More?"

Oh. He glances down at his cup and tips it toward himself to peer into it. A small stream of red liquid slips around the edges and pools at the bottom. "N … N … No," he says.

He swallows. Somebody nearby laughs, and he looks that way. He can't help it. A loud voice, and he's looking left, now, instead. A shout and a wave. Straight ahead. Another laugh, this time behind. There's too much, all dragging at his attention. Everything is moving, and he finds himself fruitlessly scanning the kaleidoscope as his breaths tighten with distress. There's too much. There's too much everything.

His head throbs.

They've only been here twenty minutes. The meeting hasn't even been called to order, yet. He feels pathetic. But he can't do this.

"M … M … Meredith, I-"

She grins and nudges her elbow into his side before he can finish, and his entire line of concentration is broken. Words … evaporate. He forgets what he was saying. He follows the line of her gaze to the refreshment table along the back wall.

"Look!" Meredith says. "Someone muffin."

He manages to focus on a bearded man picking up one of the blueberry muffins that Derek and Meredith made that afternoon. Meredith's eyes narrow as she focuses on the man's bright Mariners shirt, and she looks back at Derek. "Mariners fan." She gives him a nudge. "Should hi. Baseball?"

Derek shakes his head quickly enough to give himself whiplash. Meredith stares at him for a long moment, long enough for him to say, "What?" a bit more gruffly than he intended.

She looks … almost sad for a moment, but she buries her melancholy almost as fast as it appeared on her face. "Nothing," she's quick to say. She flashes him a hopeful grin. "We awesome muffin?" Which makes no sense, but her eyebrows are raised, and she's looking at him like she expects him to say something back to her.

His head is throbbing like his heartbeat is a pile driver. "Yes," he says faintly, hoping that's the right thing, because he can't bear to ask for clarification again. He just can't.

Meredith seems satisfied with his answer, and she gives him a pleased nod.

Someone laughs so hard the noise hits Derek's ears like a wrecking ball, and he cringes. He glances toward the sound. A group of men and women are clustered together, animated in conversation. Another noise to the left yanks at Derek's gaze. And then another to the right. A low sound of distress coils in Derek's throat, but, though he can feel it vibrate in his throat, it's inaudible in the bedlam.

"Meredith," he says, "I n-need …," to go home.

But a curvy black-haired woman about Meredith's height parts the crowd to join them before he can finish untangling his thought. "Hi Mara new?" the woman says as she steps into their space.

Derek's already lost. Meredith launches into a rapid-fire conversation with the newcomer. He hears his name spoken by Meredith twice, but that's all he can figure out in the aural kaleidoscope. He wants to tell Meredith he needs to leave. Not just needs … but **needs**. But he doesn't want to interrupt the conversation, either. He can wait a few more minutes before the noise pulverizes his brain into goo. So, he stands there, silent, suffering, trying not to look like he wants to claw out his ears and his eyes.

"Derek," Meredith says. "Hear?" Or here?

He blinks.

He realizes both women are staring at him – the black-haired one and Meredith – both with eyebrows raised expectantly. He licks his lips. What …? His gaze darts back and forth between them.

"Sorry, I … m … miss it," he manages in a flat, disconnected tone, and he doesn't overlook how the stranger frowns at him. His hope for establishing any sort of illusion of fluency is already shattered. A pit forms in his stomach. "Say … again?"

Meredith steps closer to him. "Want muffin bake sale," Meredith says in a slow garble. Which … doesn't make sense, and doesn't help him. It's like … his ears have just … given up working in this morass, and his eyes aren't far behind. Everything is a moving, writhing blur.

"What?" he repeats, frowning.

"Do want bake muffin bake sale?" Meredith says, even slower, now, and this still makes no sense, and …. He resists the urge to shift back and forth on his feet, or to simply flee from this nightmare. God, he needs to get out of here.

He glances at the frowning stranger. And then back to Meredith. And then back to the stranger. The black-haired woman is looking at him like he's a science experiment. The pit in his stomach deepens. His chest constricts as embarrassment clutches like a fist around his heart and squeezes. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what **they** said. And he hurts.

"I … d-d-d-didn't …. heared," he manages in a shaky voice. He can see the exact moment when the black-haired woman decides he's dumb. It's that oh-you're-so-precious look that most adults reserve for children, and it's humiliating.

The woman steps closer and puts an unwelcome hand on his shoulder. She smiles a saccharine smile. "Bake sale help muffin good," is all he hears when the stranger tries to clarify in that awful, condescending tone.

"Should," Meredith adds with a nod, like she doesn't hear what this woman is doing to him. "Meet." Or meat?

Heat like fire creeps across his face. He doesn't want to ask again. He doesn't- "Yes," he tries, almost blurting the word, and the black-haired woman smiles a bright, toothy smile. Her teeth have dark lipstick stains stuck to them. She reaches for his hand, and he shakes it. The woman's grip is dry and warm.

"Thursday," she says. Whatever that means. The sinking feeling in his stomach doesn't abate. What did he just say yes to?

As soon as the woman is gone, Meredith's smile melts away. "Okay?" she says, amongst other things that he can't discern. Her tone is dripping with dire concern.

A lump is stuck in his throat. "No," he says in a quiet, desperate voice. "No. I want h-home. Please. P-please, home. This … t-t-too many."

That's all she needs to hear. She grabs his hand, and they leave side-by-side, as fast as he can walk, which isn't fast enough. He needs to get out of here. He needs to …. She drops his empty cup in the trash for him as they pass by it on the way out the door.

The cool night air outside the gym fills his lungs to the brim until they burn, because he's panting so hard. His head hurts. It really hurts. Like lightning is flashing in his skull.

"Derek, what's wrong?" Meredith says. "Derek, stop, before you trip yourself!" She pulls on the tail of his shirt, trying to get him slow down.

"It so … noise," he rasps, stumbling, mindless. "I … c-can't." He wishes he had his cane. He left it in the car. He didn't think he would need it. "It … so n-noise."

He's trembling by the time he shambles into the parking lot. He feels like someone's banging drums right next to his ears. Sharp headlights pierce his pupils as someone drives past. He gasps as pain lances through his skull, and he snaps his eyes shut. Everything is too bright and too loud and too much and too fast.

He stops next to a rain-spattered silver car he doesn't recognize and leans, before his sense of balance obliterates itself, and his right leg gives out. A loud, high-pitched warning chirp makes him flinch. And then the chirping explodes into bedlam. Lights flash on and off. Sound slams into him like a linebacker.

Something grabs his arm and pulls. He's so disoriented he feels sick. He lets the something pull him somewhere. His ribs hit something hard, and cold, and smooth, and then he slides down the side of it with a squeak as he collapses. It's too loud, and it's too much, and he curls away, pulling his arms up over his head and pressing his face into his knees. Something cold and wet seeps through his jeans, but it's a distant thing.

A deep, thick moan clots in his throat.

It's too much. It's all too much.

* * *

When he can think again, his awareness comes back slowly. His head is pounding. His stomach is churning. He sees a dark blur through his eyelashes. He's cold and wet and shivering on the damp pavement, back pressed against the hubcap of a pickup truck, hands clapped over his ears.

Meredith's sitting on the ground beside him. Her arm is wrapped over his shoulder, and she's pulling her fingers through his wet hair. Drizzle pricks his skin. Her breaths fog, coiling in the dark air.

He makes … not so much a word as a deep, croaky, "Uhnnn." He presses his face against her neck, seeking warmth. Seeking … her. His calm in the storm.

"Hey," she says, a soft whisper. She bites her lip. "You set off a car alarm. Are you feeling better?"

He's not up for talking, yet. He nods.

"Do you think you can stand up, yet?"

The world feels like it's dancing a slow revolution around his body. He thinks if he tries to stand, he'll vomit. He shakes his head.

"That's okay, then," she tells him. "We can sit here for a minute."

And so he rests against her, breathing in and out in stressed rasps, eyes squeezed shut, while she rubs his back. Time is a place beyond his comprehension. He has no idea how many minutes pass before he manages to pull himself together enough to attempt movement.

He just wants to go home.

He clutches her left shoulder with shaking hands and tries to get his weight settled onto his feet. It's a long, awkward battle wrought by misfiring synapses, but she helps him stand, and they hobble to Meredith's Jeep as a singular, busted, limping unit. She helps him sit in the passenger seat. She flips on the heaters full blast and yanks his wool trench coat over his body, covering him up to his neck. Then the door slams, leaving him in the stillness.

In the quiet.

"God what crap week," he hears her say woefully to no one as she climbs into the car on her side.

He sleeps while she drives them back to the house.

* * *

" _This is your fault, you know," Mark says. He flicks his wrist and sends his fishing line farther downstream. Water crashes against his muck boots, and he has to take a step to the left to balance himself in the heavy current._

_Derek takes a step into the cold stream. He applies his bait to the fishing hook. "What is?"_

_Mark gestures to the churning, angry water. "This. You did this."_

" _Did_ _ **what**_ _?" Derek says._

_A crow caws from one of the branches above them. It takes off and flies through the gray, damp air. The river roars._

_Mark stares for a moment, an incredulous expression on his face. "You-_

* * *

"Derek, we're home," Meredith whispers as she squeezes his shoulder, though to Derek's over-sensitized ears, she sounds like she's screaming, and he snaps awake with a pained groan before Mark can answer. He blinks sluggishly, waiting for his eyes to focus. The impressionistic blur resolves into dirty windshield. With shaky hands, he unclips his seatbelt, opens the door, and tries to find his footing on the loose gravel in the driveway below the car. Balance is harder than it should be. And his hands won't stop shaking.

* * *

After Meredith says goodnight to Melody, Meredith joins Derek in the master suite.

"So … what the hell happened?" she asks him slowly as he brushes his teeth like an automaton. He feels … raw. Like his skull is sandpaper, and it's rubbing brain tissue. "I didn't think that was any worse than the gala with the crazy disco ball."

He spits his toothpaste into the sink, kicks back a glass of water, gurgles, and spits again. He feels abraded and spent, and even her normal tone of voice feels discordant, almost makes his ears itch. "Echo," he says, and he cringes at how hoarse he sounds. "Echo hammer, over over." He hobbles to the towel rack to wipe his face. "Gala busy, but …." He peers back at himself in the big, bright mirror. He looks pasty. His eyes are bloodshot. And the outline of everything is shimmery like sunshine glinting off water. "Not so loud … g … g-gym."

"Oh," she says. "I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "It's … not … you." He rubs his eyes. His head is throbbing, and it's not a question of whether he'll get another migraine at this point, but when it'll hit. "What did black woman say?"

Silence stretches. Meredith gives him a confused look. "What black woman?"

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Hair. Black … hair."

"Oh! Xiomara?" Meredith says, eyebrows raised.

He shrugs. "I don't know name," he says as he limps to their bed. Meredith follows. "I don't …." He licks his lips. "I don't understand … any. She thought I'm moron."

"She didn't think that," Meredith says.

He frowns. "You didn't hear? She talk me like I'm kid."

"She did not," Meredith says, and he clenches his teeth.

"She did!" he retorts as he yanks back the comforter and sinks into their bed. "And I don't know what she say." He twists at the waist to pull his codeine from the nightstand drawer. The bottle jingles as he picks it up, and the noise explodes like firecrackers in his head. He winces.

Meredith regards him for a long moment, biting her lip as he pops a pill and swallows it dry. She looks …. She looks like she's trying to figure out how to tell him he just hallucinated the whole gym.

"What are you stare?" he snaps as he feels the pill slide down his esophagus.

"Derek, you volunteered to make muffins for the bake sale on Thursday."

"What?" His eyes widen. "No. No, I don't."

"You did," Meredith says as she climbs into bed on her side.

He shakes his head. "I don't want talk her m … m-more."

"Derek, you said you would," Meredith replies. She takes her lotion bottle from her nightstand and squirts a huge dollop onto her palm. She starts rubbing the lotion into her left arm, palm rasping against her skin. She looks boggled. "I thought you were finally-"

"What?" he says.

"Trying to **meet** people," she says. "Make friends. I thought …." She sighs. "I'm sorry. I should have been paying closer attention to-"

"How many people are … bake sale?" he says, pinching the bridge of his nose, wishing the codeine would kick in.

"I don't know," Meredith says. She frowns and gives him a helpless look. "A lot?"

"I can't," he says. Sparkles like sequins drift across his field of view. He can see them even with his eyes closed, now. And the shimmer is brightening. "I can't do this."

"Derek," she hazards slowly, "I know it's scary to you, but-"

"Is sale … gym?" he says.

"I …." Meredith shakes her head. Her eyes are wet. "Derek, I don't know."

"I can't understand gym!" he snaps.

She flinches at his outburst. "I can call and cancel for you."

"No!"

"But you just said-"

"If tell them why no, they know, if don't, rude, I need …. I don't …. I …."

"Derek, I don't understand you."

"I don't want them know!" he roars. "I don't want them think stupid! They will think stupid! She already decide stupid!"

"Then I don't know how to fix this," Meredith hisses. "And she didn't think that. You're imagining things because you're so freaking self-conscious."

"Maybe, I can't understand, but I hear. I h-hear how she sound."

"She didn't think you're stupid, Derek!" Meredith insists. "She was just worried she'd pissed you off. You were looking at her like you'd sucked a lemon, which, lemme tell you, isn't a welcoming look!"

"I didn't want ask repeat," he says, glaring. "All I know is ask, so I say yes."

"Well, I'm not psychic, god, damn it!" Meredith explodes.

He stares at her, stung. "I'm sorry you need psychic," he says in a thick, low tone. He blinks, a lump stuck in his throat. The room blurs. Something crawls down his cheek.

She deflates. "Derek …."

He pulls the covers over his shoulder and turns his back to her. His head is throbbing, and he can't deal with this right now. He just …. He can't. The sparkles are getting brighter, and his skin is starting to tingle. He has a few minutes, if that, before the bomb in his head explodes. He flips off the lamp on his side and burrows. He closes his eyes.

He wants to go back.

He wants to never get into the car he nearly killed himself with.

_Where have you been? I've been waiting and waiting for you!_

He wants a lot of things he'll never get.

* * *

 

_The room feels like a football field, though it can't be that big. Flying buttresses lift the ceiling into the stratosphere. Sunlight slants into the space through stained glass windows. Meredith stands atop a set of six marble stairs, decked in white from head to toe. She holds out her hand for him, and he smiles. Her palm is warm, and he squeezes it until her knuckles mash together. He's too happy – is it possible to be too happy? – and he feels like his body is lifting off the floor._

" _Do you, Derek, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?" says Miranda, who stands one step above them._

_Derek nods. Yes. Yes, he does._

" _Derek?" says Miranda. "Do you take this woman?"_

_Derek frowns. Meredith elbows him gently in the ribs. "You can't just nod," she whispers. "You have to say."_

_Oh. He swallows. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out._

" _Derek, say yes," Meredith hisses, pleading, now._

_And he tries. He tries to speak. But all the words have left him._


	4. Week Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot of interesting comments from readers this go 'round.
> 
> Yes, Recite is super duper angsty in places, but it's also very positive, in a way. One of the other things I really wanted to show with this story was MerDer starting to be a "real" couple again. Before, with Reclaim, Meredith was so concerned with not stressing Derek out that she suppressed a lot of what she might normally have said. But, now, they're comfortable enough and secure enough to start having minor disagreements without the world ending. Derek in the sense that he's finally in the head space for handling it, and Meredith in that she realizes Derek's not going to break over every little thing she spent so much time worrying about before. So, another thing that's going on is Meredith's just not spending as much of her energy on making sure everything goes as smoothly as possible. There's bound to be some growing pains from that. So, while it's very dissonant in some ways, it's an improvement for them as a couple as a whole. If that makes any sense.
> 
> It's a new reality for them, and it's a learning process. They're both learning. And, while Meredith has had almost two years to grieve and come to terms with things, Derek's only had a matter of months, so, he's a little behind the curve at the moment. He's still grieving. But he'll work his way through it :)
> 
> I hope that makes some sense of the some of the difficult stuff that's going on in this story. I'm not torturing characters for the sake of torture. I've never done that and never will. My characters learn and grow and change and figure out how to move forward when an obstacle gets dumped in their path. I don't like stagnancy.
> 
> As always, oodles of thanks to those who take the time to leave feedback :) I really appreciate hearing from everybody! I'm posting this chapter a little early as an apology for making you wait so long for the last one.

 

Sunday and Monday and half of Tuesday dissolve in a whorl of pain.

* * *

It would be an inaccuracy to say he woke up. He didn't. Not really. He becomes aware. His head is throbbing faintly, but the pain isn't debilitating anymore. It's pitch black, but someone warm is sitting on his side of the bed by his hip. Fingers run through his hair. He smells lavender and shea. He parts his lips and lets the scent well against the back of his throat. It's … soothing.

"Awake?" says a tiny, tiny voice.

He sighs and pushes back his mask, only to gasp and slam his eyes shut when lamplight hits his retinas like a spear. "Sorry!" Meredith says, and he hears her flip the switch on the lamp, and the fleshy red tone of his eyelids turns black.

When he tries to open his eyes again, it's dark. "Hey," she says in a soft whisper, pausing to cup his chin. "Can talk still blah?"

It takes him a few tries, but he manages to rasp, "Both."

"Derek, want make appointment Dr. Wyckoff week. Okay?"

He's not due to go back to Dr. Wyckoff for months. "Why?"

She gives him an incredulous look. "Two migraine two week. Many headache can't count. Spent week monosyllabic fog. Want safe."

"Oh," he says. He sighs. Going to Dr. Wyckoff for anything other than a routine checkup probably means getting an MRI, and the last thing Derek wants right now is an MRI. It takes forever, it's claustrophobic, and they usually sedate him because he hates the banging noises. He rolls onto his side to get his elbow underneath him, and he pushes up into a sitting position. He swallows. "Meredith, I don't want."

"But, Derek … what if it-"

"I'm not sick," he says.

She snorts. "Seriously? Beg differ."

"No, I meaned …." He touches his skull. He can feel the runnel there, just behind his hairline. A lump forms in his throat. "Meredith, I have … so … m … much. I'm …."

She scoots closer. Her eyes glisten in the waning light. "Too much go?" She squeezes his shoulder. "Throw bone. How help?"

He swallows. The lump expands. "I don't know what … you say."

"Sorry," she says, slowing down even more than usual for him. She continues, "I just meant … please, talk to me."

"The gym gives me headache."

She sighs. "Derek, I get that it sucked for you, but twenty-five minutes of sensory overload by itself hasn't been enough to give you a migraine in … months. So, what I'm left with is … you're either worrying yourself sick about something, and all this other incidental crap is pushing you off a ledge, or there's something legitimately wrong with you. In which case, you **need** an MRI."

He looks at her outline in the dark. His mind is a confusing jumble, and he has no words for the coiling, churning, awful feeling in his gut, or the way he feels like someone's grabbed his heart and won't stop squeezing. He has no words.

He **never** has the words he wants.

"I … can't," he says, eyes pricking.

"Can't what?" she prods.

"Explain."

She folds her arms. "You mean you don't want to."

"I mean I … c … c … c … **can't** ," he snaps.

He pushes off the bed, seeing nothing but molten at this point. His attempt to stand up is more of a see-saw competition with balance than a coordinated effort. His head spins. And, then, she's there. At his waist. Arms wrapping around him. The look she gives him is a stricken one.

"Derek, I don't know what to do," she says in a tone that makes his heart ache.

All at once, he's yanked out of his own awful headspace and given a hard, cold look at hers. His immediate conclusion is that he's screwing this all up. Royally. The worry and frustration gripping her entire frame is a thick clot of discord, and it makes him feel even worse for his deficiencies. He can't explain. He can't explain any of this. He supposes … the least he can do for her is remove one source of anxiety.

"Please, not Thursday."

She frowns. "Thursday?"

"For Wyckoff," he says. "I have to bake sale."

"Derek, you don't have to do that. I can cancel for you."

"I **say** I will," he snaps. His temper is yanking on its leash today. "I say I will, so I **will**."

"Okay," she says, surrendering. "Okay, sorry. I'll see if he can cram you in on Friday."

Derek hobbles toward the bedroom door.

"Where are we going?" she asks.

He swallows. "Kitchen."

"Okay," she says, and they stumble out into the hall.

* * *

"I can't … can't … can't **say** this," Derek snaps, and he shoves Marie's stupid pile of flashcards off the coffee table. A wicker basket of full of magazines falls victim to his tantrum as well. The sweeping motion is violent and feels good in the moment, but as he's panting, watching the cards flutter to the floor like a blast of confetti, all he feels is hollow. And awful. He's acting like he's four.

He swallows, and he takes a deep breath. "I'm … regret," he says. "Apologize." The tight feeling in his chest tightens. He growls in frustration and gives up. He bends over to pick up the mess he's made. He's made a mess of everything. His hands are still shaking.

"Derek, don't worry about that right now," Marie says.

But he shakes his head. "No, I … should," he says. And he doesn't stop until he's picked up every last piece of his tantrum and put it back in order on the table, the way it was before he swiped at it. At least, these are pieces he can pick up.

He leans back against the hulking couch. He stares out the window. His teeth clench, and a lump forms in his throat. "My three year son talk better." His eyes are wet. "I try not to want thing. But … I want talk. I **want**." He wants to rewind time and …. **Damn it**.

Marie regards him for a long moment. She brushes a loose lock of blond hair away from her ice blue eyes. Laughter lines hug her eyes. She has a kind face. "Derek, you are **never** going to be fluent," she says, in a way that's gentle, warm, but also steel. "It's not going to happen. You're not wired that way anymore. And I understand that it's frustrating. And I sympathize. Truly, I do. But this is something you need to learn to cope with."

"Easy say," he grumbles.

"It isn't," Marie counters.

"Your … b … b … brain is not … b … b … b-broke!" he snaps.

She regards him for a long moment. "Derek, I have multiple sclerosis."

He blinks. "What is …?"

"Let's just say my brain is about as uncooperative as yours is, sometimes, just in different ways."

He swallows. "Oh." Well, now, he just feels like shit.

Her chair squeaks as she shifts in it. "You've been having a lot of trouble with staying positive lately."

"I know," he says. "I know. I don't … I don't know why. It just … now …." He pats his chest. " **Here**."

She nods. "I think seeing someone might help."

He frowns. "See … s-someone?"

"A therapist," Marie says. "We have a few on staff here who specialize in this sort of thing. I highly recommend Dr. Flannigan. She could offer you some coping methods you, maybe, haven't thought of."

He's speechless.

"No pressure," Marie is quick to assure him. "Just think about it. Okay?"

He swallows. "Okay."

"Do you want to stop or keep going?" Marie asks.

"Go," he says. He needs to get this. He **needs** to.

She points to the top flashcard and says, "Okay," in a soft, encouraging voice. "Tell me what this is."

* * *

Pop music riddled with irritating, painful cymbal crashes blares from the speakers in the small, bright supermarket in the shopping complex next to the bus station. Derek stands in the checkout line, clutching his wallet in his hands. Three items, he's buying. Three cartons of fresh blueberries for the damned muffins he's gotten himself stuck into making for tomorrow.

His body is tense as he peers at the woman behind the checkout counter – a tall, thin, middle-aged brunette with her graying hair pulled back in a sloppy ponytail. She has big, bluish, puffy circles hugging her eyes that speak of exhaustion, like the ones Meredith has every so often after a long shift. He won't have to talk to the checkout woman, he tells himself. It's just a simple transaction for a few items. She's tired. She'll smile a hollow, fake smile, and ring up his items. All he'll have to do is smile a hollow, fake smile back at her, swipe his card, and be done.

But he can't get his body to relax.

Which is stupid, because all he's doing is buying some groceries for a bake sale he doesn't want to participate in, and this shouldn't be some big event. Derek Exerts His Newfound Independence, a holiday occurring every fourth Wednesday in February. Like July 4 or Father's Day or Thanksgiving. It shouldn't be like that.

But it is. It **is** a big event, and Derek doesn't want to talk right now. He hasn't fully recovered from his migraine earlier in the week, and, on top of that, his capacity for human interaction has been blasted raw by hours in rehab today. Hours where he sweated and talked and sweated some more, until he had no sweat left, and no words remaining to communicate his exhaustion.

All he wants is to buy the blueberries, go home, and sleep while the muffins bake.

The pudgy man in front of Derek finishes his transaction for four bags of chips, grabs his crinkly bundle, and departs. Derek steps into the space the man vacated. The woman behind the checkout counter smiles at Derek, a hollow, fake smile, just as he predicted, but then she goes off the script he's created in his head. Her lips move. She talks very fast, like the people in radio commercials who are trying to sell cars and solar panels and other things.

All he hears is, "Hello find today?"

For a moment, all he can do is stare with a blank expression. He has no idea what the question was, but it's clear the woman expects a response based on her tone and her upturned eyebrows. "Say … again?" he says.

The woman repeats herself without slowing down. "Hello find today?"

Which doesn't make anything more clear, and he doesn't want to talk, and why did this have to be the day the person at the checkout talks to him with expectations of a reply? People have tolerance levels, he's discovered. He can ask for clarification once without any strange looks. If he asks again after that, he starts to get flashes of irritation. Eye rolls. Expressions that scream, _what the hell is wrong with this guy?_ They don't think Derek can see these reactions, but he can, and he does.

All the time.

The black pit in his stomach churns and squeezes. He doesn't want to make a huge production out of buying groceries. He doesn't want to get the not-so-secretive looks that tell him he's an idiot. He's not in the mood for that kind of mirror, right now, not when he's too tired to do anything but believe what he sees in it. That he's stupid. And so all he gives the woman is a soft, "Hello," and he doesn't explain that he doesn't understand.

She figures out he's not going to answer whatever she asked, and she shifts to ringing up his items. Blush spreads across his face. He feels rude, now, instead. He hates that, too. He's not rude, he wants to say. He just ….

"Paper plastic?" the woman says, interrupting his thoughts.

He looks at the plastic bags. He wants those because they have handles, and they're easier for him to carry with his weak, but dominant arm. He opens his mouth to say what he wants, but it's like a wave crashes into him and sweeps all his thoughts away. All that pops loose from his throat is a flustered syllable that communicates nothing of substance. He looks at the bags again. He knows what he wants. He just heard the woman say it. But the word is already gone. It's gone, and he can't think of what it was or how to say it anymore.

"I … want …," he manages. Bag. Coffee-colored. Hold. Carry. Trunk. Car. Grocery. "I …." He looks at the bags, but he can't. He just can't. And he's too tired for a mental war with his vocal cords. He points at the plastic and says, "This." Wrong. The bags aren't next to him. He just learned this. Not this, but …. He shakes his head. "That. Thank." Which is still wrong, because who ever gives a singular thank? "Thank. Thank you." His blush deepens as the checkout woman's eyes narrow. He **sucks** at camouflage.

Nevertheless, she puts his items in a plastic bag.

"Twelve thirty-seven," she says.

He nods and slides his card through the reader. He waits for the blank line to pop up on the screen where he needs to sign his name.

"Sorry credit decline do another?" she says, and when she finishes, her eyebrows are raised again.

She wants him to answer.

He reviews what he heard. Sorry credit decline do another. But … he can't fill in the blanks when he doesn't even know the meaning of all the words he **did** hear. Decline? He hasn't heard that before. The black pit keeps churning.

He sees a flash of impatience tear through the checkout woman's gaze when he doesn't respond. Someone behind him in the line rolls her eyes and starts doodling on her phone. His hands tremble.

His blush is molten when he admits, "I don't … understand."

A jarring cymbal crash floods into the air from the overhead speakers. He cringes. He's so flustered that he's not ready to interpret, and all he hears when the clerk leans forward to repeat herself is, "Credit card decline." Which is the part he didn't understand, and her repetition doesn't help him.

He shifts from foot to foot, not quite sure what to do. "What …." Is. Is. Is. **Is.** The word won't come out. "What … decline?"

Everyone is looking at him. Staring. Peeling off layers.

The exhausted clerk doesn't do anything to disguise her irritation at this point. "Have card?" says the clerk in a jumble of syllables, and he's sure that, once again, he's missed some. But he can't begin to guess. The clerk lets loose a blustering sigh. "Have card?" she repeats in a more insistent tone, like she thinks his ears don't work in addition to him being a moron. She gesticulates. " **Have card**?"

Of course he has a card. He has a card in his hand. He tries to give it to her, but she won't take it. He doesn't understand why she won't take it, and he's upset enough at this point that he can't even speak.

"Cash?" the clerk says.

But Derek only has $5 in ones, meant for the vending machines at the rehab center, which isn't enough to pay for what he wants. Still, frantic, he checks his wallet, rifling through the $1 bills, hoping a $10 or a $20 will magically appear. His ID card falls out as he searches. His pre-accident photo stares back at him for a brief moment, and a tidal wave of indescribable … badness nearly bowls him over, before he grabs the card and stuffs it back into his wallet with as much force as he can muster.

He looks at the tired clerk. And at his credit card. And at his wallet. And at the tripartite line of blueberry cartons he wants to buy.

"N … n … no," he struggles to say despite his turmoil. "I … I … I don't … understand."

"Speak English?" she says.

Humiliation is a brushfire that hollows him out.

His words have left him. He doesn't understand why he can't buy these items. The room is getting so bright that it hurts to look at things, and the cymbals crashing from all the speakers make him flinch. It's too loud, and he can't …. He can't do this.

The clerk picks up the phone by the register. "Manager checkout help," she says into the receiver.

Which just means another person to talk to, and Derek doesn't want to talk to anyone else. He doesn't think he can, and he's already made a giant scene. One of the people in the back of the line is jumping ship and moving her cart to another checkout line. Another is scowling.

He can't do this.

He leaves his items on the conveyor belt and walks away.

* * *

Stewart picks Derek up at the bus stop in his old puttering brown-and-beige station wagon right on time. Drizzle splatters the windshield at a rate that defies the windshield wipers. Leaving them off results in a view obstructed by a myriad of tiny shattered-glass-like droplets. The slowest setting is too fast, though, not only resulting in a smeary mess that forces Stewart to lean forward and squint as he inches the hulking car away from the curb, but also the wipers make screech-y scraping noises against the glass. Derek flinches and pulls his hands over his ears.

Stewart turns the wipers back off. The partial obstruction is better than a smeary mess and the awful noise. "Sorry," Stewart says, giving Derek an apologetic look.

Derek shrugs as he yanks his seat belt across his lap. A click declares it fastened. He sighs. And then he slumps against the door. His head is throbbing.

"You rain," Stewart grouses, but Derek doesn't catch it all. "Seattle rain. Guidebook. All you get …." He gestures at the watery mess on the windshield. He sighs. "Legitimate drizzle!"

But Derek's done right now. He's just done. The idea of talking is just …. He shakes his head, hoping that's enough to deter conversation.

"Wrong?" Stewart says. "Thought you grocery. Where bag?"

Derek swallows. "N … no," he manages, a croak. He closes his eyes.

He doesn't remember much beyond that except little pieces in a bright, painful morass. Stewart's car bouncing as it advances up the gravel drive to Meredith and Derek's house. Stewart, helping Derek into the house. Melody saying … something.

The last little piece is Derek.

Pulling the comforter over his head.

Falling fast asleep.

* * *

"What do you **mean** , you can't tell me why it was declined?" Meredith snaps into the phone receiver while she paces back and forth.

The kids are in front of the TV in the living room, which is where Meredith deposited them the second she and Zola came through the front door and received Derek's unhappy answer to, "Hi, Daddy!" and, "Hey, how was your day?" said in unison. Both Bailey and Zola are oblivious to Meredith's kitchen tirade. They're clapping along with some singing lamb puppet … thing.

It's a struggle for him to focus on Meredith with the background noise behind him tugging at his ears, too, but he manages. After a few hours of sleep, at least, he feels reset back to his minimum requirements for sentience. He traces her back-and-forth path through the kitchen with his eyes. Back and forth. Back and forth. He can hear the faint, tinny response of whoever's on the other end, but he can't make out the words.

Wawawa wa wa **wa** wawa, wa.

"But it's **your** credit card," Meredith replies.

Wa wa, wa.

"If you don't know, how am I supposed to keep this from happening again?"

Wa **wa** wa wa wa **wa** wawa, wa.

"Great," Meredith says, eye roll so pronounced Derek wonders for a moment if it's possible for eyeballs to roll out of their sockets. She sighs. "Well, thanks for **nothing**." She slams the phone back into its cradle, glares at it for a moment, and then finalizes her conversation with a grumbled, "Jerk."

"Sorry," Derek says, the word glum. It's all he can think of to say.

Meredith is **seething**. She takes one look at him, though, and her anger sluices away like rain. She joins him at the center island, plopping onto the stool next to him.

"The card should work again, now," she says. "I think you should start carrying two, though. Just in case. That sounded all kinds of it's-totally-going-to-happen-again." And then she gives him a pained I-hurt-when-you-hurt look. She leans into him, wrapping her arm low around his waist. "I'm sorry that happened to you."

He shrugs. "It's not you."

"I know," she says. "But I'm still sorry." She kisses him along the jawline. Her hair tickles. "I had a crappy day, too."

He presses his lips to hers. "What happen?" he murmurs.

"A minivan flipped over. Some little kids died. Like … Bailey little."

"Sorry," he says.

She echoes him with a shrug and an, "It's not you." And then she bumps his shoulder with hers, and she grins. "Hey," she whispers, tone dropping low as she sneaks a quick glance over her shoulder at their zombie children. The children are still zombies. "Wanna fool around later tonight?" she continues. "I hear it's good bad-day relief."

He snorts. "Okay," he says. "I need this." He winks. "My day is **very** bad."

"Well, I guess we'll have to make the encore very, **very** good, then," she replies.

* * *

"Did you like the food at the gala last year? I liked the food at the gala last year."

They lie side by side, spooning, her spine flush with his chest and abdomen. Meredith's little vibrator hums in the quiet as he rubs her with one hand, and he thrusts into her core from behind. This is one of his favorite positions. All it requires is hip movement, and he can do it for a long time without getting winded or tired.

"Meredith," Derek says, pausing mid-thrust.

"Wha- oh." She tightens her grip around his hands. Her lower body grinds against him. "Right there."

"Want this?" Derek says, winding the little black crescent in a circle. "Or talk … cater?"

"This. This, this," she bleats.

He kisses the back of her neck. Her skin is damp, and a hint of salt touches his tongue. Her hair is a whorl of lavender scent in his face. He moves again. Plunges. Her body is wet and tight around him. Every thrust brings him home. His eyelids drift to half mast as he lets himself enjoy the sensation. The friction. The heat.

"It's just that they had these little ham sandwiches that were just-"

He sighs, and he stops again, panting. Something inside him, something buried deep below his navel, is beginning to squeeze into a little ball of glorious tension, and it's begging him to make it pop loose. And all he has to do for the pop is keep moving. He doesn't want to stop. His body doesn't want him to stop.

He can't help but sound exasperated when he says, "Meredith …."

"Sorry," she says.

"I can't … both," he says.

"I know. I'm sorry."

He lifts one hand from the vibrator to run it along her skin, belly to shoulder and back. He sighs. "I'm … bad if you think ham sandwich."

"No!" she says. "No, that's not it. It's just …." She rubs his hand, staying the vibrator's circular strokes. She takes it from him, turning it off before setting it on her pillow, and then she scoots away. Cold air hits wet skin, and he groans at his sudden bereavement. She rolls to face him and pushes close, until their noses almost touch. She reaches down with a hand, fingers plunging past his navel, and then she cups him.

A soft sound of pleasure rumbles in his chest. He thrusts against her belly. She rubs him, almost absent, gaze never leaving his. Her green eyes glisten in the darkness.

"It's just … I had a bad day," she says.

"I know," he says, frowning. "This … why … mmm." His back arches as he pushes against her. "Meredith if want … talk." He pants. "Stop."

"Sorry," she whispers with a sly grin, and then her lips press against his. She does stop. Though she keeps her hand against him, she doesn't move it, at least. "It's just … it's my happy place."

He blinks. He moves his lips. For a moment, his vocal cords won't work. "W … what?" he manages.

"The vow renewal," she says. "It's …." She sighs. "I was mostly doing it for you to begin with, but …." She shrugs. "I'm finding I really kinda like the idea. So … when I have a bad day … I think … about the to-do list. Which still has 'find a caterer' on it." She sighs again. "Please, don't make fun."

He raises his eyebrows as he drags the tip of his finger up her spine. "Why … will I?"

She shrugs. "It's not very dark and twisty."

He nuzzles her. "You … allow. Are allow. Allow. Allowed."

"I still don't want a girly dress or anything," she assures him. "Or anything pink. Or flowers. Or … bows or … ribbons." She spits out the word bows like it tastes horrible. "Or … really … I think we can just rule out decorations altogether. Decorations are definitely not dark or twisty."

He snorts, and he kisses her. "Whatever … floats … boat."

She laughs.

"All I want is …." For a moment, he can't say it. The word. His chest tightens just thinking about it, and his throat won't cooperate. He swallows. "All I want is … v … v … vow."

Her gaze softens. She pulls her fingers through his hair and kisses him. Her lips are full and swollen. "I'm just …." She gives him a watery look, but doesn't finish her sentence. "Exchanging vows will be **really** nice," she whispers. "I think, maybe, my favorite part."

Her words are a bit like a discordant mistake in the middle of a symphony. His teeth clench a little. But … he's in the middle of making love to his wife. She has her hand wrapped around his arousal. He thinks about that. And the curve of her breasts. The way her whole face softens when she looks at him, kind of like how he feels lighter just by looking at her. His lips part, and he lets the scent of lavender coil against the back of his throat. It's a calming scent. One he remembers from before.

_You'd just washed your hair, and you smelled like some kinda … flower._

He's in the middle of making love to his wife.

Who's been there for him since before his life makes any sense to him. He can't even imagine her not there. She's just … fact.

He kisses her. "I love you."

She presses her nose into the crook where his jaw meets his throat and inhales, long and deep. He rubs her back. He feels her teeth gathering a little tent of skin, and he flinches with a snort of amusement.

"I love you, too," she replies. She nips him again. "You and all your ticklish glory."

"I don't think you win this argument, yet," he says, pressing his chin against the top of her head.

She laughs. "Derek, you're ticklish. It's not really an argument."

"I like convince," he tells her.

"If you say so," she says. The hand she has cupped around him moves. The tip of her nail slides faintly against the inside of his thigh. He kicks out with his right foot as he barks with laughter. "Convinced, yet?" she says.

He smirks, just barely. "Shh. We argue … tickle … ham sandwich… later."

"That sounds kinda dirty," she says in a suggestive tone.

He frowns.

"I mean sexy," she's quick to amend. "Dirty means sexy in this context."

He snorts. "Yes?"

"I admit, I may be reaching," she says. "At least, with the ham sandwich part." Her smile flattens out into a serious look. "Though, those were **really** good ham sandwiches, you know. Kinda porny in the mouth or whatever."

He winks. And with that he straddles her, and she laughs again. It's a lovely sound that somersaults down his spine. He adores her laugh. It makes everything outside their bubble go away.

He dips low to kiss her. Their tongues touch and slide against each other as he re-sheathes himself in her heat. She tastes a bit like chocolate, thanks to the "self-pity pie" she pulled out of the freezer before dinner. And she feels like ….

He groans into her mouth as her insides tighten around him.

The little ball inside his lower body constricts.

She claws at the pillow, reaching for her little vibrator.

And they both chase release.

Together.

* * *

_The reception is loud and boisterous, and all the chatter bounces off the walls, echoing like the walls are mirrors and the words are light. Derek grits his teeth, trying to smile, because all these people came for him. For him and Meredith. He and Meredith invited them all. But the noise is making Derek's head hurt, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep the smile pasted on his face._

_Meredith stands beside him in a ratty t-shirt. "Mmm," she mutters around a mouthful. She holds up a partially eaten … something … cradled in a paper napkin. "Sandwich!"_

_He sighs. "Meredith … I can't …." He swallows. "I can't understand. What about … sandwich?"_

_But all she does is grin and take another bite as Stewart and Mark peel out of the dense crowd and wander over. Both of them wear suits. Stewart wears a rose on his lapel and towers over all of them._

" _Stewart good penguin," Mark says with a laugh._

_Stewart's eyebrows waggle as he says, "Why thank," and does a little spin._

_Derek frowns. What? What does …?_

_Mark grins at Derek. He puts his hand on Derek's shoulder. "Derek man vow."_

_Derek blinks. "… What?"_

" _Derek man vow," Mark repeats._

_The echo pounds against Derek's eardrums like hammers. He winces, and he rubs his eyes. He swallows. "I can't hear here."_

" _Hear, hear!" Stewart says with a nod. "But sandwich." He pulls a little ham sandwich from the front pocket of his suit and takes a big bite._

" _Best!" says Meredith._

_A lump forms in Derek's throat. "Please, I don't understand what …."_

_But Meredith, Mark, and Stewart gather into a group, pushing Derek out of the way, and then they huddle, shoulders close enough that Derek can't get back in. They start jabbering at each other so fast Derek can barely identify any individual words. And Derek can only stare. He doesn't have the physical strength anymore to elbow his way back into the group, and he can't …. What could he possibly say to worm his way back into the conversation when he can't even identify the subject matter?_

" _Meredith," he says._

_But all she does is glance over her shoulder at him, shove her empty napkin into his hands, and say, "Get more sandwich. Hungry."_

_And all he can do at this point is say, "Okay."_

_He wanders toward the refreshment table._

_Alone in a nightmare he created._

* * *

"I come bearing emergency blueberries, as requested," Stewart announces, breath misting in the frigid, wet air as Derek opens the front door late on Thursday morning. Meredith's already gone. Stewart proffers a plastic grocery bag. He's wearing frayed light blue jeans, beat up sneakers, and a fleece jacket.

"Stew, stew, stew!" Bailey chants at Derek's feet. Bailey's barely tall enough to run face first into Stewart's bony kneecap, and the way he cranes his neck to stare up at the giant is … comical to say the least.

"Thank," Derek says, only to wince in annoyance. Damn it. "Thank. Thank you."

"No problem," Stewart replies.

Derek takes the blueberry bounty from Stewart, only to notice Stewart's brought more than just blueberries. Blu-ray sleeves sit in the crease of his armpit, and once Stewart's free of the grocery bag, he lets them fall down his side into his hand. Derek peers at the titles, but they're in weird fonts and hard to read at this angle.

"More … essential … culture?" Derek says as he steps back from the door to let Stewart in out of the chill.

"Yes, indeed, my little blank slate," Stewart replies with a sloppy grin as he stomps his huge feet on the welcome mat.

"I'm not little," Derek says with a frown. "You are very tall."

Stewart pats his chest over his heart. "Touché, my average blank slate. Touché."

Derek looses a clipped sigh. "Touché?"

"Means good point," Stewart says, and then he looks down at his feet with a smile. "Hey, kiddo. You're looking exceptionally cherubic today."

"What cherbic?" Bailey demands.

"It's that your-flame-to-my-moth feature of youth that's compelling me to pick you up right now."

A sudden grin pulls at Bailey's lips, and he raises his hands. "Pick up?"

"Indeed," says Stewart, who hands off the pile of blu-rays and bends over to scoop up Derek's son. Bailey lets loose a torrent of giggles as his elevation changes. "So, what are you up to today?"

"Train!" Bailey says.

"Oh, that sounds really neat," Stewart says. "Want to show me?"

"It in de wivving room," Bailey replies, and Stewart tromps over to the television where Bailey's toys are spread out all over creation. "Dada hep."

Stewart lowers Bailey to the floor. Derek sighs and takes the blueberries and the blu-rays into the kitchen and settles them on the island while Stewart and Bailey establish a nonsensical rapport that Derek stops trying to interpret after only a few words. He's too tired to multitask. And — he glances at his watch — he's running short on time.

He pulls out the mixing bowls and measuring cups, first, and then liberates the milk, butter, and eggs from the fridge. He spreads everything on the countertop.

"Okay, what's wrong?" Stewart says as he steps back into Derek's orbit. Bailey's playing on the rug in the living room, engrossed in his own little world, and Stewart's winter jacket is draped over the back of the sofa.

Derek looks up from his task. "I'm …. I don't want movie right now."

"Hey, no problem," Stewart says with a Gallic shrug. "It was just a thought."

Plastic rustles in the stretching silence as Derek pulls the blueberries out of the bag Stewart brought. He steps to the right to grab a big spoon for stirring. Then Derek fishes in the "miscellaneous stuff" drawer for one of the whisks.

"So?" Stewart prods.

Derek glances at him. "So, what?"

"So, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

Stewart snorts. "Derek, you're worse at lying than I am at folding laundry."

"How bad-?"

"Abysmal," Stewart replies before Derek can finish his question.

It takes Derek a stuttering moment to recover from the derailment. Stewart gives him an apologetic look. Derek wants to scream. He's been awake for all of three hours, and he's already had to ask for two definitions from Stewart. And Bailey. Bailey's made Derek feel like he's been spoken to in Portuguese or something today. A lump forms in Derek's throat as he listens to Bailey's nonsensical humming.

"Abysmal is very bad?" Derek says.

Stewart nods. "The worst."

"So, I'm abysmal talk?" Derek says darkly. He grabs an egg from the carton, cracks it on the edge of the bowl, and dumps the yolk and white into the container. He grabs the whisk with his non-dominant hand and stirs. When he realizes Stewart hasn't replied, he looks up to find his friend staring at him with narrowing eyes. "What?" Derek grouses.

Stewart cups his hands to his mouth. "Houston, I'm sensing some passive aggressiveness," he says in a weird, echoing tone. "Will investigate. Over."

Something inside of Derek snaps. It just … snaps. He drops the whisk into the mixing bowl and shoves the bowl into the sink with a heave. The bowl shatters, and the raucous clatter of ceramic sends a quick jab of pain through his skull. He winces.

"Dada have an uh oh …," Bailey sings from the living room. "Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh."

"Houston, redact the word passive from the reports," Stewart says in that weird echo voice. "Over."

Derek swallows. He shifts from foot to foot and pulls his fingers through his hair. "You are tease me, but I don't …." Understand. "I don't …." Understand. "I don't." Damn it. He tries to think.

"Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh."

" **STOP** ," Derek belts so loud his chest hurts. And Bailey bursts into tears. The high-pitched sound of tantrum stabs Derek's eardrums, and he grimaces. "Stop," he repeats, but this time it's a pleading, begging rasp. "Please." He folds over on himself, pressing his elbows onto the counter and his face into his hands. "Stop. Stop. Pause."

He's barely aware of Stewart stumble-skipping into the living room. He's barely aware of anything except that awful whining that manifests as needles in his skull.

* * *

Derek's sitting on the floor in the kitchen by the sink, back pressed against the cabinets, arms wrapped around his knees, as he stares into space. The crying's stopped, and the babble is back. The babble that says Bailey's a far more resilient soul than Derek, and he's playing and happy again.

Stewart plods back into the kitchen and looks down at Derek, frowning. Then he presses his hip against the counter and slides down to join Derek on the floor with a groan and a wince. He stretches his long, long legs out and eases his back against the cabinets, displacing a hanging terrycloth dishtowel with his bony shoulder.

"So … that happened," Stewart says matter-of-factly. "This nothing that you insist is wrong seems kinda … not at all synonymous with nothing."

Derek closes his eyes. The hurting lump in his throat won't stop expanding. His vision blurs. Everything is just … wrong. "I want this day over," he says. "I want over."

"Okay," Stewart says with a small nod. "I have days like that."

"I didn't … wanted … wanted … want." Derek clenches his fists. "I didn't want this."

"Didn't want what?" Stewart asks cautiously.

" **This** ," Derek snaps, gesturing at the countertop behind him where the blueberries rest.

Stewart turns his head to look at Derek. "Can you articulate why?"

"I …." Derek closes his eyes, trying to think. He gathers his fingers into a fist and rests his fist against his breastbone. "I have … so much. Here. Crush. And … it's not here. Before."

"Before your accident?" Stewart says.

Derek shakes his head. "No, before … some weeks." Well …. _I have so much, but it … stuck. It_ _ **always**_ _stuck!_ "M … m … maybe, some. Before," he amends. "But … not like now. It was not always."

Stewart nods. His head thunks as he tips it back against the cabinet and looks up toward the ceiling. He blows out a breath that sends wisps of black hair flying.

"You know … right after I blew out my knee, I used to have these vivid fantasies about me and Sarah on the beach," Stewart confesses. "She'd kiss me, and then she'd laugh, and then she'd dart toward the waves, and I'd bolt after her."

Derek frowns. "So?"

"So, then I would wake up in agony, and remember I couldn't run anymore, and I couldn't stop thinking … that dream is **never** going to happen for me. It made me so angry. I felt gypped. And I yelled at Sarah. And I yelled at what few friends I had left. And I yelled at my kids. And I yelled at anything that would stand still long enough for me to yell at it."

"Did you …." Fixed. "Fix it?"

"I still get angry about it from time to time," Stewart says with a shrug. "It's inevitable. I used to be able to run a five-minute mile, and now I'm lucky to walk a mile in twenty."

"Oh," Derek says. He looks at his lap as hopelessness spreads roots.

"But after a while … I realized … I still have Sarah," Stewart says. "And we can still go to the beach. And I can kiss her any time she'll let me. I still have all the important components of that dream. And the mechanics of how all those components interact?" Stewart shrugs. "Well, that's just fleshing out setting."

"But … you don't **need** run."

"True. Do you **need** perfect talking?" Stewart says. "Because, don't kid yourself, Derek. You can talk. Not perfectly, not quickly, but understandably in most cases."

Derek swallows. "I …. I need …. I don't know how to say this. I don't know. I **don't** -"

"Deep breaths," Stewart interjects.

Derek's jarred by the interruption, but for once, his inability to handle simultaneous bidirectional communication helps him. He deflates with a heaving sigh. He makes himself calm down. What was he …? Right. He thinks. And he thinks. And thinks. And Stewart waits.

"I don't … need … perfect talk," Derek continues. "I can live with talk as … work."

"Well, then, what?" Stewart says. "What's got you so furious?"

"I … f-f … f … forget word. I know, and then … I don't know." And it's not hard stuff. Sometimes, he looks at his wife, and he knows who she is, and he loves her so much his heart aches with it, but he has no idea how to say her name, no idea what her name even **is** until he hears it said. Sometimes, he can be in mid-conversation, and a word he said less than thirty seconds ago is gone. What he gets stuck on one day or one moment isn't what he gets stuck on the next. He never knows where these conversational traps are until he's already snared in them. He constantly finds himself pausing, trying to work around words he's discovered he's forgotten how to send to his mouth, or forgotten altogether. And just when he thinks he's figured out all the rules, they change on him. "It … different all times."

"I'm sure that's frustrating."

Frustrating isn't the half of it. Derek sees himself standing in front of a hundred people, trying to recite his vows, and suddenly he forgets his wife's name again. At his **wedding**. What a way to say, _I love you._ He clenches his teeth. _I love you … person-I-know. I love you … wife. Lady. Doctor. Mother of my children. Anonymous. Blonde. Freckles._ Talk about mortifying.

"I … cannot … plan," he confesses. "I cannot plan. I want … vow again. I want. But … how can vow when can't …." He shakes his head. Anger condenses like a black hole in his chest. "I don't know how to say this. I don't know **how**."

"You're worried you won't be able to say your vows?"

Or meet new people without them immediately leaping to conclusions. Or ever be an independently functioning adult who loves and wants his wife but doesn't need her for basic survival.

Struggling against a heavy current to say what he wants is exhausting, but workable. Not knowing words because he hasn't learned them yet is frustrating, but it's something fixable by learning more words. But suddenly going blank at any time, in any circumstance, but particularly in times when he's stressed ….

It's just ….

"I don't need perfect always," Derek says as the words for his turmoil finally coalesce into a shareable, conveyable idea. After weeks of being stuck. "I want … perfect moment. Sometime. Possible. I remember I have this before." _You were like coming up for fresh air._ "And I will **never** have again."

His admission is like a hammer smashing down on him.

And the even worse part is the empathetic, yet hopeless look on Stewart's face. It's a look that says, _I wish I could help you,_ _ **but**_ _._

But the problem isn't fixable.

* * *

Whatever the PTA is doing, it's far more than just a bake sale. The gym is a snaking array of tables and booths. The noise isn't bad this time. Or, at least, it's not bad enough to make his skin crawl with a need to get out of the room, not like it did that first time, during the meeting. There's a hammer banging on the far end of the room, and a soft murmur of voices. Several people mill about, but most move with purpose. There's no obvious indication where he's supposed to go. At least, not that he sees.

"Whoa!" Bailey says, staring at everything with wide eyes from his perch on Derek's hip. "Dada what going on?"

"I don't know," Derek says.

He peers at a big neon flyer taped to the wall by the entryway. He steps closer. The neon hurts his eyes, and he has to squint, but he works left to right, top to bottom. Slowly. Times and dates jump out at him, and he realizes … this isn't a bake sale. Well, it is, but it's being held in conjunction with a science fair, grades 1-5.

He knows the word science. He knows the word fair. He's not sure what a science fair is, but he can sort of guess, at least. Combining the science fair and the bake sale seems like a decent way to increase foot traffic at both.

Finished reading, he turns away from the sign and peers at the room again. It's early, still, and the labyrinth isn't even close to capacity. He clutches the shopping bag full of muffins, indecision paralyzing him.

"Derek, hello!" he hears off to the left.

Xiomara. The black-haired woman he met last week. The black-haired woman who thinks he's a moron. He licks his lips as a churning ball of apprehension gathers in his gut. He doesn't want to mess this up. He can't mess this up.

She approaches, smiling. Her loose hair falls like a wave over her shoulders. Her eyes are dark brown, and her skin is colored like olives.

"Hello," he says.

Her attention immediately wanders to Bailey.

"Who this?" she says.

Bailey has a shy moment, and presses his face against Derek's arm. Derek adjusts his grip. His arm is getting a little tired. "This … is Bailey," he says, barely recovering from an accidental word omission. His muscles tense.

"Hi, Bailey!" Xiomara says, not seeming to notice the slip. "You look lot like dad, you know. Think have his eye. How old are you?"

Which only prompts Bailey to try and worm his way further into Derek's safety bubble.

"He is shy," Derek says. He holds out his bag. "I have the …."

It's gone.

The word is gone, and he wants to sink into the floor.

He looks down at the bag. He pulled them out of the oven not one hour ago. He knows what he's looking at. He knows what they taste like. He remembers everything about them except what they're called. His immediate instinct is to try and push noise out of his throat anyway, in hopes that something gives, but he tamps that urge, because that would make him sound like a fool. His next instinct is to stare up at the ceiling. He tamps that urge, too, because that would make him look like he's thinking hard, which he is, but saying this word shouldn't require thinking, let alone thinking hard. The plastic crinkles as he shifts, and his grip on the handles tightens.

Please.

Please, he just wants to say— "I have the …." Bread. Blueberry. Bake. Cupcake. Oven. "… Muffins," he manages. Finally. His tone is flat, and the words are slightly disconnected, but it's the closest to fluent that he usually gets. He sighs. He can't help it. He said a sentence, and this is stressful, trying to act like he's normal.

She smiles. "I can see that," she says, peering down briefly at his bundle. "How many did you make?"

"I didn't …." Counted. No. Counted. **No**. "Count." He swallows. "Where do I put this?"

"Oh, I'll take it," she says, "You seem have hand full." And then she holds out her hands. "Thank so much for this."

"Yes," he says, because "you're welcome" is a tongue twister he's not willing to try right now.

He doesn't miss the weird look she gives him, or the way her lips part, and a tiny sound ejects. It's somewhere between and um and an uh. Like he's done something she didn't expect and doesn't know how to respond to.

"Would like help sale?" she says after an awkward pause, eyebrows raised. "Hour shift. Could use someone seven. Have volunteer for watch kid."

His heart starts to thud. His legs are spaghetti. No, he doesn't want to help. He wants to bolt. But …. His grip tightens around Bailey. He wants to be a dad. He wants to be an independent adult who can help his daughter's school when asked. He wants …. "Is all this … bake sale … in the gym?"

"Yes," Xiomara says. She looks over her shoulder at the sprawling array of tables, and then turns back to him. "Why?"

"Okay," he says. He can hear the hammer clapping in the background. The voices. Bouncing off walls. It's tolerable but unpleasant, and it'll only get worse as more people show up. "No, I …." Can't. Can't. Can't. The word won't budge in his throat. He settles on just, "No."

She frowns, staring at him like she expects him to elaborate. But he can't. He can't elaborate. Because, then, she would know for sure that something's wrong with him. He resists the urge to make a face or …. He doesn't have anywhere to be — all he would have to do is pass off Bailey to Stewart, who would be more than happy to babysit, most likely — but Derek glances at his watch, anyway. He taps the glass face. For a second, the word won't come to him. "Appointment," he lies, almost like he's spitting something out.

"Well, won't keep you," Xiomara says.

He takes this as leave, and he does what his feet have been begging him to do since he got here. He waves, and then he bolts as fast as his bum leg will let him go — a run-walk that's more walk than run, particularly when he's lugging Bailey around — and he doesn't stop until he's outside in the wet air, panting.

He leans against the damp red brick of the school building's outer walls, trembling.

"Dada, what wrong?" Bailey wants to know.

"Nothing," Derek says.

Bailey squirms, and Derek puts him down, because his arm is starting to shake with fatigue, anyway. Bailey is immediately engrossed with a crack in the sidewalk. He leaps over it while he hums. Back and forth. Back and forth. Derek is happy to let him burn off his excess kid energy that way, because Derek doesn't have the energy to help him do it when they get home. Derek's just … done with this day. Done with this whole horrible week.

_I didn't know there were ferryboats._

_Seattle is surrounded by water on three sides._

_Hence the ferryboats. Now, I have to like it here. I wasn't planning on liking it here. I'm from New York. Genetically engineered to dislike everywhere except Manhattan. I have a thing for ferryboats._

He closes his eyes as the wispy memory drifts away. The lump. It's back in his throat, stuck and aching. He used to have this. Easy words. Too many words to count. He used to **like** chatting.

He used to have perfect moments.

His hands are still shaking when he reaches into his coat pocket for his phone. The lump is still stuck when he types, "Done." He presses send, and he waits.

With a beep, Stewart's response, "BRT, still rounding up the kiddos. It's kinda like whack-a-mole," arrives.

And then another text follows that. "Which is a game that involves pounding random rodent things with a mallet."

Which is followed quickly by, "Remind me to take you to an arcade soon."

Which is followed by, "On second thought, that's pretty noisy. Maybe not. Remind me to show you my Atari, instead. I still have one that works."

Which … even though he can read the words, is all nonsense to Derek. Atari? Arcade? Mallet? Mole? Like everything. **Everything** is nonsense to him. He sighs as the headache that's been plaguing him since … weeks ago … starts throbbing in slow time with his heartbeat again.

_We'll talk later?_

Derek used to have that.

Now, he doesn't.

And how does he even begin to explain this to Meredith? He muddled through with Stewart feeding him intuitive prompts like popcorn, but …. Stewart's not someone Derek worries much about disappointing. With Meredith, it's the **last** thing he wants. Disappointing her after he's been such a huge burden for so long.

"Don't move," Derek snaps, yanked from his worrying when he sees Bailey inching toward the parking lot. "You stay on white. Black is where cars go."

"But dere a payground!" Bailey says, almost a whine, as he stares with a forlorn look across the rows and rows of parked cars, across the street to a huge park.

"Not today," Derek says. "Maybe, next week." He swallows. If he can get Stewart or Melody to drive them, that is.

"But, Dada—"

" **I say not today** ," Derek snaps. His voice is loud and resonating and harsh in the relative silence.

Bailey looks up at him with his big blue eyes, which water and spill over, and the sound rakes at Derek's eardrums. Derek sighs as frustration makes his chest tighten. He swallows.

"I'm sorry to yell," Derek says in a quieter, calmer tone.

"No you **not**!" Bailey yells, and then the real waterworks begin.

"Bailey … please," Derek finds himself begging.

But, of course, that doesn't work.

Derek's limbs tremble, and he wants to claw his ears out, but he takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself down. He can't calm Bailey down if he can't calm himself down. With a struggle, he lowers himself to Bailey's eye level and reaches into Bailey's coat pocket, pulling out a little green dinosaur toy.

"Why don't play with Steve?" Derek suggests in a quiet tone.

Bailey sighs — an affronted, heavy, blustering noise — and plops down at Derek's feet. He takes the stegosaurus from Derek's hand. "But I want park," Bailey whines, tears still streaming, but at least, he's lost some of his volume.

Derek nods. "I know, but we don't … all times … get thing … want."

Disaster averted. Sort of. Bailey's still not happy, but he's not shrieking, either. Derek feels like he's been hit by another car or something. He leans back against the wall again, trying to recuperate.

He really hopes Stewart gets here soon.

* * *

The sedatives he's given for the MRI on Friday waste what little fortitude he has left. Even after the nurse gently wakes him up, and he's had a little while to recover and drink some water and eat some cardboard-like crackers, he's groggy, and he's not hearing individual words very well. Meredith and Dr. Wyckoff talk in hushed tones beside him while he blinks sluggishly, staring at nothing in particular. Derek hears words like "result" and "veek" and "sorry," but he's too fried to do any more interpreting than that. In fact, he's having so much trouble functioning that not even his cane is enough, and his wife rushes to his other side to support him as he climbs out of his wheelchair and wobbles toward the waiting car.

Meredith doesn't say a word to him, though she gives him a comforting smile as she buckles her seatbelt, and he's glad for the silence. He leans his head against the cool windowpane, and he closes his eyes. The car rumbles underneath him, and he loses track of time.

He **hates** getting MRIs. In fact, he's getting pretty close to hating hospitals in general. All they mean to him these days are invasive neuro checkups with Dr. Wyckoff, pain so horrible that Derek can't function, or a veritable maze of wispy, confusing memory triggers he'd rather not try to make sense of, because all that does is frustrate him.

A thunk and then a, "Hi, Daddy!" pulls him out of blackness. He blinks and licks his lips. At first, all he can see are bright smears of light. Something warm touches his shoulder. He swallows. A few blinks focus the blur a little, but the world in front of him is still only blobs of color. Said world shakes. Zola speaks. "Draw!" is the only identifiable word to him.

He smiles and takes the picture, settling it on his lap to look at it with a bit more sentience. The polka-dot-covered shape isn't so much a facsimile of a pony as it is a general approximation of a blob with the appropriate number of limbs, and the mane looks like straw more than hair, but …. His heart squeezes, seeing it. "It … v … v …." _Very good,_ he wants to say, but he can't. Or, _**great**_. But he can't say that, either. He swallows. All the words have left him. He squints. "I … like," he manages.

"Pony!" she exclaims with excitement, confirming his suspicions about the subject matter.

He strokes the page. "R … r …." _Refrigerator_. He wants to put it there with magnets when they get home. But it's too hard. It's too hard, and he can't. His eyes drift to half mast. "Like," he repeats with effort.

"Zozo Daddy tired," he hears to his left. Meredith's twisted around, and she's reaching into the back seat for … something.

"Grain?" is Zola's concerned response.

Meredith shakes her head. "Tired. Talk." Which … he thinks he missed something again, because that doesn't make much sense.

"Sorry, Daddy," his daughter says, the weighty words sounding wrong in her cherubic tone. A seatbelt clicks.

 _It's okay,_ he means to say.

And he falls asleep again after that, hands still resting on the construction paper.


	5. Week Four (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are! The last chapter before the epilogue. Due to length, I've split it into two. My question is ... do you want the second part of this chapter this week, or would you rather wait until next week to spread it out a little more? Either way, hang in there guys. Derek's figuring things out - it's a process, but he's working his way through it!
> 
> Thank you so much for the folks who take the time to leave feedback. I truly appreciate hearing from everybody! I'm a little behind in replying, but I promise I'll catch up soon :)

The lake is calm, sloshing underneath the dock struts at a sedate, rhythmic pace. Birds sing, but it's too cold for frogs, and their distinctive chirrup chirrup chirrup, audible in summer, is absent. The sky is gray, and a deep slate color along certain veins in the clouds announces impending rain. The air is wet, but, at least, it isn't raining, **yet**. The rain isn't due until after the sun sets.

"What about … pre-recording?" Richard says as he brings in his line a little.

Derek frowns, looking across Stewart's and Mike's reclined lawn chairs to Richard's. Stewart's claimed the old, rickety orange one as his own. The other three chairs are new.

"How does this work?" Derek says.

"Well …," Richard begins slowly. "You'd record yourself saying your vows with a video camera or a dictaphone. A dictaphone records voices instead of pictures."

"You say I should do this … before," Derek says.

"Yeah," chimes in Stewart. "You could redo it as many times as you need until it's perfect like you want. And then play that at the vow renewal."

Derek's frown deepens. It's … a nice thought, in theory. But he can't imagine standing there like an idiot while he plays a tape, because he's too scared to try talking to Meredith in person in front of a crowd. Not to mention how clinical it would feel.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "This is … not … real. Or warm. I need …."

Richard shrugs. "It was just a thought."

"I know," Derek says, offering a conciliating grin. "Thank you for … try to help."

Mike sits up straight in his chair with a creak, grinning. His pale skin is rosy with chill, and his blue eyes are bright. "Oh, I think I have one." Derek glances at Mike's line. The line twitches. Mike's definitely got, if not a fish, **something**. "Now, what?"

"Oh, this is the best part!" Stewart crows. "Just reel it in. Then we look at it while it flops around, and we ooh and ahh and grunt self-congratulatory grunts about our prowess like the manly men we sometimes are. Then we throw it back."

Mike laughs and does as he's told, and soon they have a slimy, squirming, bug-eyed creature flailing around on the dock while Mike tries to unhook it, so he can throw it back. The fish is a small one, about eight inches long, and it's shiny and silver and-

"It's a trout!" Stewart decides.

Derek snorts. "You don't know what trout look like."

Stewart raises his eyebrows. "Well, do you?"

Admittedly, this is only Derek's and Richard's fourth fishing trip, Stewart's third, and Mike's second, and as far as self-education about fishing goes, learning the kinds of fish they could catch was relegated to later, later, later, and later never ended up coming around. Reading about fishing isn't as fun as fishing for real, and seeing what happens.

So, Derek shrugs. "No," he admits.

"Maybe, it's a salmon," Mike says as he finally manages to rescue the poor squirming fish. The four of them take a long look at it.

But Richard nods, leaning closer. "No, no. Salmon are saltwater fish, I think. I think that **is** a trout. Or …."

"Is trout a winter fish?" Mike says.

"Admit it," Stewart says. "It's a fish. That's all we know."

"Or do we?" Mike says in a joking tone.

"Well, I can't imagine dreaming about catching Mr. Fish Jr.," Stewart says. "He'd be at least a foot, if this were fantasy." Stewart thinks up at the sky for a moment. "Actually, if this were my fantasy, I'd probably have a guy doing my fishing for me while I recline here and sip an ice cold beer."

Richard grins at Derek. "You know, you used to come out here at three in the godforsaken morning to catch these? You'd make breakfast with them."

"I don't remember," Derek says. "Is trout good?"

"Well," Richard suggests, "we could keep this one to cook and find out, if you want."

Derek looks at the poor, gasping creature squirming in Mike's hands. Its big unblinking eyes and flexing gills make it look panicky and desperate. "No, throw him," Derek says. "I don't …." The idea of dumping a living, squirming creature into a pot does nothing for him, and the idea of actively snapping its neck does even less. "Let him go."

"Could be a she, you know," Stewart says.

Derek shrugs, and Mike tosses the fish back into the water, where it lands with a violent splash. It jets away, back into the murk, and disappears in less than an eye blink. The waves slosh and slurp below the dock. Derek stares at the water for a long moment as Mike and Stewart and Richard all return to their chairs.

"I feel like fish, sometime," Derek says.

"What do you mean?" Mike says.

Derek shrugs. "I am fine. And then something bad hook me. And … now I'm …." Panicky. Gasping. Desperate. He shakes his head, only to find all three of them staring at him. He swallows. Mood successfully killed in one morbid metaphor, and now his chest is constricting again, like someone's sitting on it. He blushes. What is **wrong** with him, lately? He was fine. He was fine, and he certainly didn't identify with the damned fish, before. He was **happy**. "Sorry, I … sorry."

But Stewart only shrugs. And smiles. And says, "You know what?" He reels in his line and sets his fishing pole beside his chair. "We could skip the fishing part today and just drink the beer." He glances at everybody. "I mean, fishing's really just an excuse to come out here and do nothing for a while, right?"

Mike shrugs and grabs a fresh bottle from the cooler they brought. "I'll drink to that," he says.

Richard grabs two root beers and hands one to Derek. It's the one kind of "beer" Derek's found that he enjoys. Not that it's beer, exactly, but, at least, the glass bottle makes it look sort of like beer, and drinking it makes Derek feel less like a weird outlier on social occasions where drinking is involved. He wraps his fingers around the cold glass and takes it. He blinks as a lump forms in his throat.

The four of them clink their bottles together.

"Hear, hear," says Richard.

All four take a swig. The liquid is cold enough that Derek can feel it going all the way down his esophagus and settling in his stomach like an ice cube. He shivers a little.

"Maybe, we should bring hot coffee next time it's this cold out," Mike suggests, teeth chattering, echoing Derek's thoughts.

"Heresy!" Stewart says. "Beer and fishing go together like … peanut butter and jelly."

"But hot coffee and cold weather go together like peanut butter and chocolate," Mike counters.

Stewart goggles for a minute. And then he slumps in his seat. "Curses, I've been trumped."

Derek's not sure what curses are or trumping is, but he doesn't have the heart to ask right now and ruin the conversation flow. Not again. Richard, Stewart, and Mike all share a chuckle, and Derek chimes in with a hollow laugh of his own, mimicking the expected reaction. Mood successfully recovered. Everyone seems to relax at once, and it turns out Derek needn't have worried about conversation flow, anyway, because a pleasant silence ensues, and all that can be heard are the chirping birds and the sloshing water.

"I … have … doctor question," Derek says after a while.

"What's that?" Mike says.

Derek looks down at his lap for a moment. "Can you tell me … what is multiple … sclerosis?"

To their credit, nobody asks why the sudden subject change, or how in the hell Derek heard about multiple sclerosis. It's something Derek's been meaning to ask all day, though.

"It's an incurable disease of the brain and spine," Mike's quick to say. "The immune system attacks the body's nervous system. Your immune system is how you fight off diseases."

"Body think its brain is … flu?" Derek says.

Richard nods. "Sort of like that, yes."

"What does this do?"

"Well, it can cause impaired coordination, for one," Mike replies. "Blurred vision. Fatigue. Vertigo. Slurred speech. All sorts of things."

"Oh," Derek says.

Like him, a little bit. He thinks of Marie. He's never once noticed any of this about her. If she experiences it, she's damned good at hiding it. Or … maybe, he was just too wrapped up in his own frustration over talking to notice she has problems, too.

He files that away for later, and he takes a sip of his root beer.

"Hey," Stewart says as he stares at the lake.

"What?" Mike says.

"Which fish can perform operations?"

Richard snorts. "I don't know, Stewart," he says in a humoring tone. "Which fish can perform operations?"

"A sturgeon!"

* * *

On Sunday evening, while dinner's cooking in the oven, Derek raps on Bailey's open bedroom door with the backs of his knuckles, and he smiles, and he holds out Bailey's favorite game: Memory. "Want to play?" Derek offers from the hallway, giving the box a little shake. It's been a while since they had some quality time that didn't involve one or both of them having a meltdown, and Derek wants to make up for it.

Bailey looks up from his blocks and his cars, frowns with disinterest at the box, shrugs, and goes back to playing. He makes little engine noises as he pushes a truck forward into a block, followed by an explosion noise as the truck hits the letter A. Derek frowns.

Bailey's never said no to a game before. Derek's always had to be the one budgeting the time they spend together, at least, that he can remember. He licks his lips, steps into the bright room, and sits down on the rug beside Bailey. He sets the box beside his hip.

"Bailey, are you okay?" Derek says.

"Yeah," says Bailey without looking up.

"You're sure no play?" Derek prods. "It's favorite."

"Yeah," Bailey says, again without looking up.

"Okay," Derek says, unwilling to push. He takes the box back to the game stack in the living room and heads into the kitchen to check on the roast.

* * *

Derek doesn't think much of Bailey's first rejection beyond the fact that it's weird, but Bailey continues to rebuff any play offers on Monday and again on Tuesday, all the way until bedtime, and Derek's careful to offer some attention at least once every hour or two. Each time, Bailey says he's not interested. Derek's never received a colder shoulder, and he's not sure what to do.

"I think Bailey avoids me," Derek says, frowning, as he pulls back the coverlet on his side of the bed.

"What?" Meredith says. "Why?"

"I don't know," Derek says. "I'm …." Except … he does know. If he's honest with himself. He sighs, and he sits on the mattress. "I'm so angry."

"Now?" Meredith says. "Or …."

Derek shakes his head. "Before. I'm sorry." He's terrible at verb tenses. Except …. "Now. Always."

"At Bailey?" she says, the words gentle.

He shakes his head. Bailey is just unfortunately there. At all the wrong times.

Meredith scoots up behind Derek, presses up against his back, wraps her arms around his body, and kisses the side of his face. "Dr. Wyckoff called today," she says. "He didn't find anything wrong." She rubs his chest. "Which you knew he wouldn't." His eyelids dip, and he leans back against her body, a low hum of pleasure coiling in his throat. "Do you want to talk about it, yet?"

"Meredith, I don't …." He sighs. "I don't know what to say to you." His chest constricts. "This is why I'm mad. I can't …."

"I get that it's frustrating," Meredith murmurs against his ear. "I get that. I do. But, Derek, you went months without behaving like this, without being so … overcome. Why **now**?"

He stares into space. "The … v … vow renewal," he manages.

She sighs. "Is **that** what this is about?" she says. "You're stressing over the wedding planning?"

"I …." He swallows. "No."

"We can ease up on the planning, or …. We don't have to rush this. It's not supposed to be stressful. I mean, of course, planning any big event is bound to engender some anxiety, but it's not supposed to be so stressful it's making you sick."

"Meredith, it is not **planning** ," he insists.

"Well, then, what is it?" she demands. "I've tried to be patient, but …."

"But **what** ," Derek snaps back at her. "I'm sorry my brain scramble hard for **you**!"

She glares. "That's really freaking low, Derek. And you know it."

He deflates. She's right. Of course. She's right, and he's, as usual … incomprehensible. "Sorry," he says in a low, croaky tone. God, why is this so …. "I think …."

"What?" she says.

"I think … I should take Bailey … park … Thursday."

Whatever reply Meredith expects, that's not it. A flash flood of anger rips across her expression like an escaping wave. She folds her arms and huffs an affronted sigh. "You know," she says, her tone deep and low and angry, "I think this has nothing to do with the fact that you hit your head. I think it's just **you**."

He blinks. "I … I don't understand."

"Oh, come off it, Derek," she says.

"Come off **what**?" he says. "What does this …? I don't …." How did this conversation go so far south so fast? "I don't understand."

She rubs her forehead like she's irritated with him. The silence stretches. "Changing the subject isn't going to make this go away. Timeouts don't **work**. We've proven that more than once. You can't just ignore the problem. **We** can't."

"I'm not change subject!" he snaps. "I'm **not** ignore. I don't know how **say**. I don't … know **how**."

"That hasn't stopped us before! Why won't you even try?"

He's so frustrated at this point all he can do is growl at her, because all his verbal neurons are disconnecting from his mouth. How is he supposed to try like this? How is he supposed to …?

But she flops flat on her side of the bed and flips off her lamp, putting a definitive end to the discussion with a disgruntled sigh, before he can get his mouth to behave again. He stares at the lump she forms under the covers, stung. Unsure. Replaying the last few minutes in his head. Over and over and over.

She's never done that before. Not waited for him to straighten himself out enough to say something. She's never once made him feel so … rushed. Or inadequate.

Or, maybe, that's just how he feels, lately. Inadequate.

He's still replaying the scene as he settles under the covers.

He's still replaying it when he closes his eyes.

And it's still a swirl of sound, coiling inside his skull, when he falls asleep.

* * *

Wednesday is a cold war. He and Meredith don't really speak. It's awful.

* * *

Thursday morning, after Derek feeds everybody breakfast, Meredith takes Zola to school, and Bailey slinks off to hide in his room and play with his trucks. Derek offers to play with him three times, spaced about forty-five minutes apart, and each time, Bailey shrugs and says no thanks in a low, dejected tone without looking up. The fourth time Derek makes an approach, Bailey's actually closed his bedroom door. The latch hasn't clicked. There's still an inch-wide sliver of space letting sound through, but the message being sent is a clear one.

_Dada, go away._

A lump forms in Derek's throat when he realizes his suspicions are confirmed. Bailey's avoiding him. Derek's really screwed this up. He heads into the living room with his cell phone and calls Stewart.

"What's up?" Stewart says when he picks up, the words slow and spaced so Derek can understand, though Stewart's panting, and there's an odd timbre to his voice.

Derek rubs his eyes with his free hand. "Can …." He sighs. He hates having to ask for help any time he wants to go somewhere. He hates …. The lump hurts, and Derek swallows noisily. Damn it. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "Can you take me and Bailey park?" He winces. "To park." A deeper wince. "To … … the … park."

"Can you wait until after lunch?" Stewart says. "I'm in physical therapy right now."

"Yes," Derek says. It's not like he's got a damned choice. Stewart grunts, and Derek frowns. "Are you okay?"

"Oh, peachy," Stewart grumbles, breathless, his shallow panting tightening with each exhalation. "Therapist fun bend knee wrong way," he blurts on an exhale, a little too fast for Derek to interpret. He hears another voice over the line, distant, one that he can't understand, and then Stewart adds, not into the phone, "Shut know like pain."

Derek's frown deepens. He's not sure what to say or how to interject. Stewart saves him, though, and suggests, back at the phone, this time, "Three, okay?"

Derek resists the urge to sigh. Three is … **way** after lunch. God, he hates being so dependent. Being able to use the bus was such an exhilarating addition to his skill set, until he realized he couldn't use the bus without help getting **to** the bus, anyway. But … Stewart's helping. Period. And Derek has no room to complain about the how or when.

"Yes," Derek says in a soft, defeated tone that he can't seem to help.

"Okay," Stewart replies, panting again like he's hurting. And then he hangs up.

It's an abrupt encounter. Abrupt in a way that's very anti-Stewart, who, in his normal, unimpeded state, likes to gab and gab until, even though Stewart takes care to talk slowly, Derek's brain is in knots trying to keep up. But ….

Derek sighs, embroiled in his own problems, and he drops his phone on the coffee table, and he heads back to Bailey's room. He pushes the door open from an inch to all the way. Bailey's sitting in a shaft of dim sunlight, making engine noises while he pushes his cars around. Derek raps his knuckles on the door softly and waits until Bailey looks up with his bright blue eyes.

"Bailey, do you want park today?" Derek says.

Bailey, at last, perks up. "De one wif circuh swide?"

Derek shrugs. "Yes. And monkey bar."

Bailey bounces. "Yeah!" he cheers.

Derek grins. "Later afternoon, okay?"

Bailey's joy doesn't seem like the kind that can be tempered by details like timeframes. He gets up and jumps around in his little blue overalls, chanting, "Yeah, yeah, yeah!" like he's won Powerball. And, son successfully lured, Derek grins a grin that doesn't meet his eyes, because the lump is still there, stuck in his throat, and because he's trying not to hope he's made any personal headway, here.

"What do you want for lunch?" Derek says to his bouncing charge.

Bailey stops bouncing to ponder. "Maconi and cheese?" he says.

"Okay," Derek says. "Want to help?"

Bailey thinks for a long moment, happy smile melting away. "Okay," he says warily.

Derek nods, and they head toward the kitchen, Derek in front, and Bailey slinking cautiously behind.

* * *

Derek takes the pot off the stove briefly to let Bailey pour the noodles into the boiling water, and then Derek sets the timer for seven minutes. Steam billows from the bubbling pot, making the air near the pot feel hot and wet. He carries Bailey to the dining room table, where they sit to wait out the seven minutes. Derek pulls his chair close to Bailey's.

"Bailey, do you remember last week?" Derek says. "You wanted … park, and I said no, and you … get … mad?"

Some more of Bailey's recovered enthusiasm wanes, and his eyes seem a lot less bright. "Yeah," he says, tone wary.

"Sometime, I get mad like this also," Derek admits. He runs his fingers along the runnel in his skull. Has he always been this hot-headed? He can't remember. He wishes he could remember. One of the things Dr. Wyckoff had said might be a problem following Derek's injury is reduced impulse control. "I try not, but sometime, I yell."

Bailey frowns. "You want to go to de park, too?"

"No, but … your feeling," Derek says. "When you yell. The angry want. I feel this way sometime, too. About other thing."

"Oh. Wike when?"

"Like … when I hear loud," Derek says. "Or … when I want … to say word, but … can't."

Bailey's curiosity is piqued enough to overcome his dourness. He looks up at Derek. "How come you head hurt make you talk funny? Are dose nevers broke, too?"

Derek's chest constricts, and he looks at his hands for a moment. "Yes," he manages. Barely.

Of all the verbal knives Bailey could have stabbed him with right now, Derek thinks … this might be the most serrated. He rubs his eyes, trying to keep his upset at bay. It's one thing when an adult notices how stupid Derek sounds. It's another entirely to know his own son thinks that way, too. That Dad sounds dumb. He wonders if Zola thinks the same thing. And then he's leaping down that awful rabbit hole, wondering if … Meredith agrees. She's just … sensitive enough not to say anything to him.

 _I think you're as smart as you used to be,_ he can hear her saying, unblinking, sure, and he tries to wrap himself in that memory like it's a cloak. _I don't think the accident took that away from you._

_You … think I'm smart?_

_**Yes** _ _, I think you're smart._

She wasn't lying. She wouldn't lie. She wouldn't do that to him. He knows it. But … for some reason, his self-assurances aren't working one bit right now.

He rubs the bridge of his nose.

_I just feel like I just … got you back. And … now, you're going again._

The wisp drifts past his mind's eye. His fingers clench.

"Dada, why you cry?"

Derek wipes his eyes and sniffs and takes a deep breath. "I'm … okay," he says.

Though he's not. He's not okay. He's not okay at **all**. And then the microwave timer starts beeping, and he flinches as the sound lances through his skull, plunging his not okay into disjointed, wrong, cringing. He shakes his head, and he gets up, leaving Bailey at the table.

Bailey slides off his chair and toddles after Derek. "I can hep?" Bailey says at Derek's feet when Derek lifts the steaming pot off the stove to carry it to the sink. "Peas, I can?"

"Yes," Derek says. He drains the noodles, dumps them back in the pot, rips open the cheese packet, and then lifts Bailey up so he can see the countertop. "You …." Derek's throat closes, and all the words are gone. He can't remember how to describe a single thing he's looking at. And he's too upset to sort out the verbal jam.

He's just … stuck. Blank.

Fury boils up in his chest like a geyser. He wants to yell. He wants to yell so badly. But he's holding his son, who he's just barely convinced Dada isn't some monster. Stupid, yes, but, at least, not a monster. He clenches his teeth, and holds his temper coiled inside like fishing line.

He hands the cheese packet to Bailey and motions silently, encouraging Bailey to pour it. It takes Bailey a second to understand without verbal instructions, but he gets it after a few demonstrations, and he giggles as he watches the cheese powder fall into the pot and land on top of the noodles. He gets a bit mischievous toward the end of the pour and shakes it, spraying the last little bit of powder all across the counter.

Derek sighs, but he's too upset to discipline. He sets Bailey down on the floor, grabs the milk from the fridge, and finishes mixing the ingredients. He doesn't bother cleaning up the cheese. Not right now.

It's not until he gets Bailey into his high chair, serves him a tiny bowl of the macaroni, and sits in the chair beside his son that he's feeling any semblance of being able to converse again. His first tries at words are abysmal, breathy failures, which only makes Derek's chest constrict even **more**.

"When … … yell …," he manages, words wobbly and quiet. Bailey looks at him, lips smacking noisily as he chews. Derek leans close, until he's shoulder to shoulder with Bailey. Bailey shovels another spoonful of cheesy noodles. Derek swallows, and he takes a deep breath, trying to clear his head. "It … not nice … hear … this yell," Derek says, words coming back to him in a slow, hesitant march. "Is it?"

"No," Bailey admits around his noisy mouthful.

"I'm sorry," Derek says, swallowing. The lump. It's back. Again. Like a permanent fixture, superglued to his esophagus. He wishes he knew why he felt so damned volatile lately. "I will … try more hard … not yell … if …." He sighs. This isn't really an if, lately, is it? "When …," he amends. "When upset. Okay?"

Bailey's silent for a long, tense moment, chewing. "Okay," he mutters, like forgiveness isn't something high on his to-do list for today, but … okay, maybe, he'll give it a shot.

Derek puts his hand on Bailey's shoulder and squeezes. "I love you … very much," he rasps. At least he can get that out without issue. "All times. Okay?"

Bailey puts down his spoon for a second and frowns. "Even when you yewwing?"

"Yes, even then," Derek says with a nod. "Okay?"

"Okay," Bailey says. "Can you push de swing when we at de park?"

Derek gives his son a brittle smile. "Yes. I can do … th …." Not this. "Th …." **Not** this. "That."

And, this time, when he lets Bailey out of his high chair, and Bailey wanders off to his room to play, Derek doesn't try to follow or foist himself on his son's playtime. He sits on the couch, instead, staring into space as he tries not to give in to the nearly overwhelming urge to throw. And yell. And stomp.

_I'm doing ten miles over the speed limit. That's not fast enough for you?_

He squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't know where that's from. He doesn't remember ….

_I don't let people die. I'm very good at my job. Even next to the roadside._

He pulls his fingers through his hair, trying to force this shit out of his head. He doesn't want to think about before.

_You aren't god, so, you don't know._

He doesn't want to think about who he used to be.

All that does is make him realize how much he's lacking, now.

* * *

"Wow, who died?" Stewart wants to know when he arrives at 2:45 p.m., and a haggard Derek opens the door. All Derek can offer is a depressed shrug. Stewart's hobbling more than usual, and his black eyes are bleak, and pinched at the corners. Derek rounds up Bailey, and the three of them head out to Stewart's old station wagon, where Annie and Lindsey are already buckled up and waiting.

"Thank you for … ride," Derek says as he climbs into the front passenger seat.

"Park, park, park," Bailey sings happily from his car seat. "We go to park! We go to park!"

Stewart glances in the rearview mirror, but doesn't smile. "Sure," says Stewart.

"I will … do this … myself," Derek says as Stewart backs them down the gravel drive. Rocks churn underneath the car. "Soon."

"Can we go to the park, too?" Annie pipes up from the backseat. "I wanna go."

"I don't," Lindsey says.

Stewart glances in the rearview mirror again. His gaze settles on Annie. "I'm sorry, Starshine, but we have other plans."

"I can .… I can watch Annie," Derek offers. Though adding another rambunctious kid to his responsibility list today is the last thing he wants, it's also the least he can offer, considering how much Stewart is helping, now, and has helped in the past.

" **Please?** " Annie adds.

But Stewart shakes his head. "No, Annie's got ballet, and Lindsey has piano lessons." He glances at his watch. "And I'm running late dropping them off as it is."

"Sorry," Derek says.

Stewart shrugs. "Don't be. You're mostly on the way, anyway."

"Dad, can I skip piano tonight?" Lindsey grouses. "I don't wanna do it."

"Nope," is all Stewart says, and Lindsey sighs.

"But-"

"Linds, I don't want to argue with you right now," Stewart says in a stern tone, almost snaps, which is … not like him. He **never** snaps.

Another put upon sigh blusters from the back seat, but Lindsey stops protesting, at least.

"You know," Stewart says as they approach an intersection, and the hulking car slows, "when you get clearance from Wyckoff, I could teach you to drive." His engine makes a funny squealing noise as he accelerates once he's past the stop sign, and he frowns. "It's not like running this car into a fencepost accidentally would matter much," he says, and then adds in a darker tone, "and it's not like I have much else to do with both girls in school, now."

"Yes, I miss Zo," Derek muses as he watches the scenery.

Stewart glances into the rearview mirror at his girls, and then at Derek with an unreadable expression. "That's not quite what I meant," he says.

Derek frowns. Stewart sounds … irritated. "Did I say a wrong thing?" Derek says, tone cautious.

"No, you just …." Stewart sighs, and he shakes his head. "Never mind." _You won't understand,_ he doesn't say, but it's what he means, and Derek can't help but bristle.

The silence stretches, and Derek's not sure what to say. He grips the door handle, fingers clenching to the point that his knuckles turn bloodless white. Stewart's never picked on Derek's lack of context before. Not once. And he's never made Derek feel bad for his verbal issues, before. Ever.

Derek swallows. Maybe, he's just too raw from everything else going wrong, lately, and he heard wrong. Maybe.

He doesn't want to talk. It's the last thing he wants, but …. Normal people talk. Normal people with normal friends talk all the time.

"Why do you … drive this?" Derek says, trying to make conversation. "It's …."

"A dinosaur?" Stewart quips with his regular snark, all hints of his former ire gone.

Derek must have read things wrong, before. He relaxes a little. "It does remind me of Steve," he says with a soft snort, thinking of Bailey's favorite toy stegosaurus.

Stewart shrugs. "This is the first car I ever bought with my own money," he says. "It's a bit sentimental, and it hasn't gotten smashed, yet, and the engine hasn't croaked-" Said engine makes another squealing sound as Stewart turns the wheel. "Hasn't croaked, **yet** ," Stewart amends. "So … I figure … why not?"

"You didn't wanted …." Derek sighs. "Want. Want. Didn't want. You didn't want old … fancy car … when you buy this? Bought."

Stewart's silent for a while. "Fancy wasn't really an option at the time," is all he says.

"Oh," Derek says. He feels like he stepped on a landmine, though he's not sure why. "Sorry."

Stewart shrugs, but he doesn't try to offer any conciliation, like, "Don't worry about it." The drive continues in ominous silence, save for Bailey's backseat babbling, and the girls' chatter. Silence, which … for Stewart, is just …. Maybe, Derek **didn't** read things wrong before, after all.

"Are you okay?" Derek dares to ask.

"Fine," Stewart says with a clipped, insincere smile. "Just … many shades of ow, ow, **ow**."

"I **hate** physical therapy," Derek says, eyes narrowing as the world flies past the window. He's pretty sure Stewart's lying. Well, not lying. Misdirecting?

Stewart sighs. "You and me, both, buddy. You and me both."

And before Derek can think of a suitable reply, Stewart's pulling them into the parking lot, and Bailey's clapping with excitement, and … well … what else can Derek do but collect his son and head out to the swings? Stewart waves, a huge shadow behind the shiny window glass. The car squeals and backs out of the parking space. And then Stewart and his kids and his dilapidated dinosaur car are gone.

"Dada, dada, I want dis one!" Bailey exclaims when he reaches the swing on the left. It's the swing Bailey always picks, unless there's another kid already using it. "Dis one go highest!"

Derek nods, and he helps Bailey settle in.

* * *

He has a moment. When he's pushing Bailey in the swing. His son is laughing and laughing, and Derek doesn't have to say anything. All he has to do is stand there and be that guy pushing the swing.

Clarity rings like a bell.

He's alive, and he's having a moment with his son, whom he loves, and in this moment, he's happy. He's happier than any words could ever translate that he gets to do this. To see this.

To be here. On this earth. Now. Being the person who gives Bailey so much simple joy.

He almost didn't have this.

He tries to hold on to that clarity. That perspective. The one that lets him be happy with what he has. He tries to keep a firm grip on the optimism Meredith covets so much.

He tries.

* * *

He sits on the bench, taking a breather while Bailey has fun on the spiral slide. Another kid – a girl – runs onto the playground, kicking up sand with her little black tennis shoes as she flies across the ground. She looks close to nine or ten, maybe, and she's wearing a puffy pink coat a little like Zola's, and a knit green hat. She picks a swing and hops onto it with a whoop. Meanwhile, Bailey's making Derek dizzy just from watching as his son goes down the spiral slide and up the ladder and down the spiral slide and up the ladder, over and over and over.

Someone sits on the bench beside him, and he looks up. His mouth falls open, but he picks it back up, and his teeth clack together. He swallows, and he licks his lips. Say hi, he tells himself. Greet her. Something. **Anything**.

"… Hello," he says after an internal war with his vocal cords.

The black-haired woman holds out a manicured hand, but he's too flummoxed to move. He wasn't planning on socializing today. Not with anyone outside of his own family and Stewart. After a few moments, the woman pulls her hand back and stuffs it into her coat pocket.

"Mara," the woman says in a rush, looking down at her lap briefly. "Met last week."

"I … remember," he says.

She points to the playground, toward the girl on the swing. "That daughter Magdalena." She smiles in that direction. Derek knows that smile. It's a proud, affectionate one that screams, _I can't believe I made that._ Derek's smiled that smile many times, and he's felt the buoyant wonder that accompanies it.

His chest feels tight. Magdalena. He thinks about the word for a moment. Magdalena. He's never said it before, it's long, and he tends to fumble words that start with M or W, particularly new ones. He doesn't want to fumble this. Magdalena. Magdalena. Magdalena. Four syllables. He just has to remember how to connect the M sound to the rest of it. He swallows.

"M …." Damn it. **Damn** it. He can feel Xiomara's eyes burning into the side of his face. He watches Bailey play. Or, well, stares in Bailey's direction, while Derek grasps at mental straws. That tight feeling around his heart constricts. "M … Magda … lena."

Xiomara grins. "Yes."

He doesn't want to be here. On this bench. Talking to this woman. Messing up simple words any adult with half a functioning brain can say. Being judged. But … he can't just get up, either. He can't flee. Or he'll look even worse. He tries to think of something to say. Something he could say without screwing up the words. Anything.

The awkward silence stretches while he churns. Wind whips across the open space, puffing up his coat. He'd shiver if he weren't cowed into stillness like a frightened rabbit.

Talk about the weather, he thinks. People talk about weather to fill empty conversational space. But he can't think of anything other than stating the painfully obvious, _It is cold_. And that would be—

"You beautiful children," Xiomara says.

"Yes," Derek says, not peeling his eyes from Bailey. He doesn't want to look at Xiomara and see her expression. "I love them."

More awkward silence.

"Muffin sold real well," Xiomara says. "Thank you much."

His legs are starting to shake. "Yes," he says, because _you're welcome_ is just too much when he's this nervous.

Xiomara sighs, and he winces. He's screwing this up. He's—

"Look did offend somehow?" Xiomara says in an irritated voice. "If did sorry."

Derek blinks. He dares to look at her. "… What?"

"Been real standoff. Can't help wonder got wrong foot."

What …. He blinks again. What? He has no idea what the hell she said, but her tone says … upset. And she's not looking back at him like she thinks he's stupid. She looks … unhappy. She's unhappy with him. What did he do? He wishes the ground would swallow him. He looks at his knees.

"I'm sorry," he says, miserable.

"Not fish apology," Xiomara huffs, "only wonder need offer."

He shakes his head.

"Okay," she says. Another sigh. "Can take hint." And then she stands up and turns toward the playground, away from him. The chilly breeze makes her hair billow.

A lump gathers in his throat. She's walking away, upset with him, and he …. "What does this mean?" he blurts, reddening, and she freezes.

She turns back to him, frowning. "What does what mean?"

"W … w … wrong foot," he says. "What? And … standoff."

Her eyebrows knit. She stares at him like he just metamorphosed into a wriggling bug to study, and he wants to die on the spot when she says, "Huh?" Like he hasn't even spoken English.

"I … I … I …." He sighs, trying to vent nervous energy. "I don't know … standoff or …." The other thing. He can't even say it anymore.

The silence that follows makes him wilt. He shouldn't have called her back to him. He should have just let her go and lived with the fact that he upset her. That would be better than the way the lump in his throat is expanding, and his eyes are pricking, and his heart is pounding in his ears. He hates this. He **hates** talking. He hates people. He hates that he can't.

He waits for her to go away, so he can calm down, and call Stewart to pick him and Bailey up. A small, warbling, upset sound catches in his throat. His heart is pounding so hard he thinks his chest might burst.

But Xiomara doesn't leave.

"Standoffish means unfriendly," she says slowly in a _why are you asking me something so stupid_ tone. He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, because it's easier than looking at her. And then he fixates on what she's said to him. Unfriendly. She thinks ….

His insides feel like they're sinking into the grass beneath his feet. He's avoided being categorized as an idiot, but only by coming off as a jerk, kind of like how his son thinks he's some stomping, smashing Hulk monster, and he …. These are his two choices, it seems. Idiot or jerk. He doesn't get to have normal or nice anymore.

Another thing the accident took from him.

But between idiot and jerk, though, there's not much of a contest for him.

"I …." He inhales. The air feels like it's barbed. He hurts inside. "I have a brain … hurt. Hurt." **No.** "Injure," he admits. "I'm in an accident. I … I have trouble with w … w … word. I …." He pulls his fingers through his hair, shifting back and forth because he has nothing else to do with all his negative energy. His lower lip trembles. "I'm … **sorry**."

When he dares to look up at Xiomara, all she's doing is standing there, gaping. This is the most humiliating experience of his life.

"I want help. I like help," he tells her. He looses a breathy, panicky sigh. What he just said means something different than what he intended to convey. "T-To," he blurts. "To. To help. PTA. I do. I …. I'm sorry I'm mean. I don't want mean. Gym make …." Body. Arm. Leg. "Head hurt. I can't … I can't be here." No. Not here. "Th-There," he spits. "There. I can't be …."

More awkward silence.

"I … don't know what to say," Xiomara replies, words sluggish and low-pitched, like he's blindsided her into malfunction, and he almost wants to laugh at this whole ridiculous, awful, mortifying scene. He camouflaged his talking troubles, after all. By acting like a dick. And, now, he's thrown a bomb on the whole conversation. So much for making friends. Heat unfurls across his face and licks down his throat like an exploding conflagration. "I don't know what to say," Xiomara repeats in a weird, halting tone he can't read except to determine that it's bad.

"I have this problem all times," he admits with a wry, upset laugh. The urge to flee is overwhelming, now, and Xiomara probably wouldn't mind a chance to organize her thoughts in peace, without him staring. "I need … check kid," he says.

And he bolts toward his son, surrendering at last to his impulse for flight instead of fight, without waiting for Xiomara's response.


	6. Week Four (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys! Enough of you wanted this this week that I decided to post after all. This is the last main chapter, but there's still an epilogue after this. Please forgive me for being so behind on feedback replies, but don't let that stop you from leaving a comment! I love to hear from everybody, and appreciate all the folks who take the time to leave feedback.

Meredith must have already been on the way home. Though he texted Stewart, Meredith's the one who picks Derek up ten minutes after he calls, with Zola already secured in her carseat in back. If Meredith notices Xiomara sitting on the far bench on the playground, staring into space, Meredith doesn't say a word.

Derek helps her get Bailey situated in the back next to Zola. Meredith doesn't speak as he climbs into the front seat, either, but he can feel her gaze on him as he clicks his seatbelt into place.

"What's wrong?" she says in a tired, exasperated tone that says to him, "What's wrong, **now**?"

And he simply can't bear to deal with her hostility on top of everything else. He shrugs, still so overcome by his awful playground experience that he can't speak to her, anyway. He can't speak. He's just too upset. His eyes water, and he watches the verdant scenery pass through a blur of tears he **refuses** to let fall. He rubs his face with the backs of his sleeves, trying to keep his eyes clear. But even fixing that doesn't fix the way his chest constricts around his heart.

His eyes hurt. His throat hurts. His chest hurts. He feels … nauseated. He needs to fix this. He needs to fix this … rage.

When Meredith parks the car in the gravel driveway, she slides out of her seat while he sits there, staring at nothing. She frees the kids from their carseats. She says something to them. Something he can't interpret.

The result is that they zip out into the front yard like angry bees. "You're it!" Zola says as she claps a hand on Bailey's shoulder.

"Hey!" Bailey shouts, and he darts after her as she flees.

Meredith comes around to Derek's side of the car and opens the door. She steps in close. "Seriously, what's wrong?" she says in a hushed tone. She's schooled herself, this time, and she doesn't come across like she's put off by his misery, at least.

He shrugs. She bites her lip but says nothing. And then she backs away to let him out of the car.

His hands shake as he grips the car frame and slides into a standing position. Meredith eyeballs his trembling fingers, but says nothing. He slams shut the door and puts his weight on his cane before she impinges on his space again.

"Derek, seriously," Meredith hisses. "You're acting like someone died. Would you, please, please, **please** , just talk to me?"

He swallows. He looks at his shoes. "I … I … I … I did," he admits.

She frowns. "I don't understand you."

He sighs, and he swallows against the lump in his throat. He splays his palm against his chest. His coat rustles as he presses. "I … m … mean. I mean **I** …. I died," he rasps.

She stills. "Derek," she says in a low voice, "I don't know what the hell metaphor you're shooting for, but that one isn't …." She blinks as her eyes gain a watery cast. "Please, don't use that one."

"I …." How does he say this? He doesn't …. He swallows. "Meredith, I can't … false." He sighs. "False. I can't … **fake** normal."

She's silent for a long moment. "Why would you want to?"

He gapes. "Who … who doesn't want … n … normal?"

"What **is** normal?" she says.

"It's …." He blinks. "It's … before."

She shrugs. "Derek, before, you were a self-righteous dick on a regular basis, one who valued work more than anything I had to offer. I was closed-off and constantly running to other people for support, instead of you, and you were constantly punishing me for it. Neither of us trusted each other. We never talked, and when we did talk, we fought. Toward the end, you resented me, and I resented you, and it soured everything. We had our moments, but for the most part, all we ever did right together was screw. So, no. If that's normal, I don't want it, and I certainly don't want to try to fake it, either."

He finds himself gaping again, speechless. She steps into his space and wraps her arms around him. She slides her hands into his back pockets. She rises to her tiptoes and kisses him, and she gives him a sad look. He hugs her with his free hand.

"I know that's not the normal you meant, though," she confesses. "I'm sorry. I'm just … normal isn't always good."

He swallows. "If I try sound like … I'm not … hurt … I'm mean." He sighs. "You right. Xi … Xi …." He gives up on saying the whole name. "Mara thought I'm jerk."

"So …," Meredith says, "normal doesn't sound so hot in this case, either."

"No," he admits. "But I don't … like." Words fail him, then, and for a moment, he can't think of how to fix his sentence. He forgets how to speak, and he's left with churning thoughts and a disconnected mouthpiece. "I don't … like … now," he says. An elephant is sitting on his chest, and breathing hurts. "I hate my choice is stupid or mean. I don't like … either. I wish I can … go back. I want … back, Meredith."

"I know," Meredith says.

"I hate … I can't …. I'm …. I will never say …." He presses his nose into her hair and sighs. "Meredith, I have so much. And I can't … say." He can't say **anything** like he wants to say it. "I'm so … m … m … **mad**. I'm **so** mad."

She's silent against him for a long time. The kids laugh in the distance near the fence. He peers over her shoulder at them, and then back to her. She looks up at him.

"You want some ice cubes?" she says.

He blinks. "What?"

She points to a tall, winter-dead tree about twenty feet from the driveway. The trunk is grayish-colored with dark horizontal slashes marring the surface at odd intervals. The branches creak as the wind makes them sway.

"I throw ice cubes at the tree when I get angry," she says. "It helps me vent."

"Oh," he says. He glances at the tree. He's never tried anything like that. He'll take … anything. Anything that stops the horrible crush in his chest from constricting any more. He can't take much more of this. "Yes," he says. "I will try this."

She nods. "Watch the kids for a sec. I'll grab a tray." And then she pulls away from him and trots inside the house.

* * *

The first ice cube he takes from the tray, he winds up, makes a toss, and misses the tree by a mile. He can't even …. He makes an upset sound, deep in his chest. His lower lip quivers, and he can't make it stop.

But then a cube sails past his shoulder, past the tree trunk, and into the straw-colored grass beyond. He turns to see Meredith, her hand still poised in a pitcher's pose, like she belongs on the Yankees. She grins.

"The point is to throw crap and have a tantrum. You don't need to hit anything."

He swallows. "Oh."

She grabs another ice cube, and she licks her lips. "I **hate** Dr. Shilling. What an arrogant asshole. If he'd just **listened** to me …." She lets the ice cube fly. This time, it smacks into the tree and splinters.

He frowns. "Who Dr. Shilling?"

She sighs. "One of the trauma attendings I work with." She gives him a sad look. "Remember when I said some little kids died last week?"

"Yes," Derek says. He frowns. "It is an accident?"

Meredith nods. "Kind of like what happened to you," she says. "Where **anybody** competent could have …." Her voice clips off in a tense, overwrought croak, and she doesn't finish her sentence, but he can fill the rest of it in, anyway.

He looks at the shoes and closes his eyes. He hates to think about that. He doesn't, often. That he could be normal. That he could be okay. If things had gone just a little differently. The hand in his chest squeezes and squeezes and squeezes.

She steps into his view and grabs his hands. She slips something freezing into his grip, and presses his palms shut over it. He shifts the cube in his hands.

"Let her rip," Meredith says. When he frowns, she adds, "Toss it," to clarify.

"I hate nobody help me when I crash," he yells, and he throws the ice cube, dumping the force of his entire body into the motion, so much that it makes his leg hurt, and his shoulder socket sting. This time, the cube connects, like Meredith's, and shatters into a spray of sparkling shards.

"There you go," Meredith says with a nod. "My turn." She takes a cube and winds up. "I hate that my husband suddenly doesn't think he can talk to me, even if he doesn't know the words." The cube sails past the tree and lands in the grass.

He frowns. "Meredith …."

She meets his eyes, unblinking. "Well, he doesn't," she says, and she stares, eyes narrowed, like she's daring him to contradict her.

But he can't.

He grabs a cube from the tray, letting it sit in his palm a moment. It leaves a wet, freezing trail of liquid on his skin. "I hate I'm like this," he says. "I hate I'm stupid or jerk." He snaps his wrist and throws. "I hate I don't know word." The ice cube flies and lands somewhere distant.

Meredith grabs a cube. The wind blows, and the trees sway. The kids pay little attention, enraptured by their nonsensical game.

"I hate that you're so unhappy you're making yourself sick," Meredith belts, and she throws the cube.

He hates that he's so unhappy, too. He wishes he could make sense of all this churning awfulness that doesn't want to go away. He takes an ice cube. The tray is close to empty, now.

"I hate I'm so angry!" he roars, and he throws the ice cube. He grabs the second to last piece of ice and adds, "I hate I can't say vow," as he lets the second one fly. It smashes into the tree trunk with a loud smack and shatters. He pants, watching the shattered bits spiral into nothingness like the fiery ends of a lit sparkler. He drops the ice cube tray on the grass and swallows. And swallows. And swallows again. He feels like he's trying to hold back a tidal wave.

Meredith's staring.

"What?" he snaps.

"What do you mean, you can't say vows?" she says.

"I mean …." He sighs. "I mean, I want perfect for you, and … I can't. I want …."

She steps into his space. "What makes you think it won't be perfect for me?" she says.

"Nothing I say perfect," he says.

" **That's** what you've been so upset about?" she says.

" **Yes** ," he snaps. "I don't want you disappoint."

She looses an exasperated sigh in his arms. "For crap's **sake** ," she says, words strangled.

He doesn't know what to do with that or how to respond. He just knows that he hates when she's mad, and he hates that he's somehow caused it. "I'm sorry," he says, low-pitched and close to abject misery. "Meredith, I'm-"

But she shakes her head, silencing him. She takes a deep breath and blows it out. And another. And another. Her whole body relaxes over the course of a minute, like she's counting to ten in her head. When she looks up at him, her eyes are red, and her face is red, like she's just barely averted her own stomping temper tantrum.

"This is one of those times where I love you very much," Meredith says. "But damn it, I hate you. I **hate** you." She grabs tents of his coat into her fists, and she pushes him away. Not hard, but the force is enough to make him wobble back a step to rebalance. "Would you just freaking **stop**?" she demands.

He blinks at her scolding tone. The lump in his throat expands when he realizes he has no idea what they're even talking about anymore. And he doesn't know how this turned around on him. All he knows is that, now, he feels even worse than he did before he threw the ice cubes. He looks at his shoes. The grass under his feet is dead, like straw. His breath fogs in the wet air.

"Meredith," he admits in a small, overwrought voice, "I don't understand. I don't …." He swallows. He pulls his fingers through his hair. "What did I … … did?"

She steps into his space again, and she looks at him. "Stop. Being. So. Self. Critical." She huffs a frustrated sigh. "Derek, you are your own worst critic. You always have been. And I wish you would just … **stop** , because it doesn't just suck for you when you do this, it sucks for me, and for the kids, and for everybody around you. **Just stop**. **Stop it**. I'm **sick of it**."

"But …," is all he can say.

The smile she gives him is tight and brittle. She rests her head on his chest and wraps her arms around him. "You can't disappoint me," she says in a soft, assuring tone, despite her expression. "Not about this. Okay? You can't. It's not possible." Her gaze hardens. "So, **quit it**."

"How is this not … disappoint?" he says. " **How**? I … c … c … can't …." He looses a frustrated, barbed exhalation. "M … m … m …." And then something inside of him snaps like a twig. "I can't even say **name**!" he shouts at her. He stomps his foot. "I can't even … say name without … sometime …." Stutter. Stutter. Pause. Halt. "I can't **say** this word! Any word!" he finishes, almost a growl. By the end, he's panting, and his face feels hot, and the world is blurred behind a solid sheet of angry grief, and he doesn't know what to do anymore. About anything.

She stands there, silent, wrapped around him, letting him burn himself out again, but he feels endless. He shifts back and forth on his feet, trying to vent, but all this horrible emotion keeps boiling over. She sways with him. "… How?" he manages in a broken tone. "How is … not?"

Her fingers scrunch at his lower back. She looks up at him. "A perfect vow … doesn't have to be words for me," she answers.

He swallows against the lump in his throat. "Meredith …."

She raises an index finger to his lips, shushing him. "A perfect vow is … you making me pancakes, because you're sorry you woke me up early. Or … getting an MRI, even though you hate them, even though you knew you were physically fine, because **I** wasn't fine. It's … helping me make muffins, because I got the bright idea that I could suddenly bake like I'm on _Cupcake Wars_." Her fingers gather a tent of his wool coat, and she presses closer. "It's knitting me a scarf for Christmas, or leaving out two aspirin on my nightstand when I'm hung over, or telling me whenever you're going somewhere, because you know I'm a paranoid freak about you dying alone." She looks up at him. "It's coming back to me after I've hurt you terribly, even though you're mad enough to see funny colors, and telling me you want to help me not be a paranoid freak."

He frowns. "You're not freak, Meredith."

She laughs. "It's stuff like you hearing me rant about your crappy self-image and how it makes you blind to the good things, and your only response is to console me."

"But … word …," he stammers.

"The only words I ever needed from you were, 'Hello,' and, 'I love you.'" She kisses his chest through his jacket. "You say those to me all the time, without hesitation, not a single skip or pause to be had. You've said your perfect vows already, Derek. You've said them more times than I can count."

He blinks, dumbfounded. "Oh."

"I wish you'd see what I see."

"What is this?"

"I see my husband," she says, eyes watery. "He's had a really crappy go of it the last few years, but he's alive, and he's here, and he wants to renew his vows with me. Nothing he says or doesn't say or can't say at our vow renewal will **ever** make that not perfect. All he needs to do for me right now is show up."

"Oh," he repeats, even more weight in his tone, a broken record.

"I wish that could be your perfect, too," she says. "I want that for you. I want you to be happy. That's all I've ever wanted for you since you woke up."

He swallows. "You happy?" he says.

" **Yes** ," she replies without hesitation. "Well, I mean, not right this exact moment. Right this exact moment, I want to **throttle** you." And that's when he realizes. When she threw that ice cube. She said she hated that **he's** so unhappy. She never said she was. "But Derek … I'm …," she continues, yanking him from his musing. She shrugs. "The fact that we're having this conversation? Sure, the words might be a little screwy, but it's still perfect to me. I'm happy. I'm … more than happy."

"But … I can't talk."

"We're talking right **now** ," she says. "Maybe, not with all the words you want, but we're talking, and …." She sighs. "I know you probably can't conceptualize this, because you don't remember any of it, so, it's not really a thing to you, but … you should be **dead**. Or you should be a vegetable. But-"

"I can," he says. "I do. I …." Words coil around him like a noose. "I know."

And he knows it's his fault, too. He can't talk, and it's his fault, but … he doesn't know why. He'll never know why. And he thinks, maybe, that's the worst part. The sinking suspicion that his impediment is something he deserves … or ….

_What … did I did … to have this took? I am bad?_

Which is when he realizes he didn't throw an ice cube for the most important thing. The most awful thing. The most …. He picks up the discarded tray with the one remaining ice cube, and he frees the last piece of ammunition. Meredith steps back from him to give him room to throw.

"I hate I do this to me," he shouts so loud it echoes.

The ice cube hits the tree trunk and shatters.

"I **hate** ," he shouts after the impact. The anger burning inside of him is molten. He pants, trying to vent it away. "I **hate. I hate. I HATE.** " Hate, hate, hate. The word bounces off the trees and fades into silence.

And then all he can do is stand there, staring into space, feeling like he's been run over by the fucking truck all over again.

He doesn't see Meredith approach him. He's not seeing much of anything at this point but a bright gray winter blur. He blinks as he feels her arms wrap around him.

"I know I do this to me," he admits softly, lump in his throat, "and I hate it."

Finally. Out loud.

"I know I'm … maybe … not here," he says. "I know."

And he feels **awful**.

"But you **are** here," she says. "You're here, now, having a conversation with me while our kids play in the yard." She blinks, and tears jag down her face. "And … yeah. It sucks. It sucks that you made a mistake. And it sucks that you got hurt. It **sucks** , and I **hate it** , and I admit, there were days before you remember, where I was **so** mad at you for that." She's crying, now, in earnest. "And I was mad at **me** , for letting you go, despite my gut telling me not to. And I was mad at … everything. I threw … **a lot** of ice cubes."

His stomach is sinking through his shoes, and he feels awful, and …. "I'm so much sorry, Meredith," he tells her, tone rasping at his lowest register. "So much."

"I know," she says in a woeful tone. "Me, too."

His chest constricts again. This is already the worst kind of epiphany. But seeing the aftermath staring him in the face through Meredith's eyes, hearing the aftermath coming out of his mouth in all his broken words, is the worst part. It's ….

A giggle-shriek pulls his attention from Meredith to Bailey. "Got you!" their son proclaims as he slams into Zola, who yells on impact, and then he jets away toward the far fence as fast as his little legs will carry him.

"Hey!" Zola shouts, and she darts after her brother.

"We should probably stop them from killing each other, soon," Meredith muses unhappily. She takes a step in their direction, away from Derek. He catches her shoulders as his attention returns to her.

"Meredith?" he says.

"What?"

He pulls her into his arms, enveloping her. "Hello," he murmurs against her ear, despite the churning in his gut. "I love you." He presses his lips against her cheek.

"I love you, too," she says.

But that doesn't stop this moment from ending on a discordant, ambivalent note, as she pulls away from him to round up the kids.

* * *

They don't talk much that evening except for the bare essentials that establish who's feeding the kids, who's dealing with bath time, and who's putting which kid to bed. The coiling wrongness won't abate. He wanders through the passing minutes in a dense, depressed fog.

"Hey," she says as he steps into their bedroom that night, and, at first, he thinks she's talking to him. His gaze snaps in her direction, but her back is turned to him, and she has the phone cradled to her ear. She sniffs and makes a soft, unhappy sound. "I'm **so** upset. I really need some help."

He feels like he's been kicked in the gut. She needs help to be not upset. And she's trying to get it from somewhere else, despite his immediate proximity.

Because **you** can't do it, is the implication that grabs him in its talons.

He heads into the bathroom to take his shower, feeling helpless, like he just woke up in rehab, and a whole new kind of speechless.

* * *

He doesn't know how long he's been standing under the shower head, staring at nothing, getting drenched, when he hears Meredith clear her throat.

"Hey," she says softly, barely audible over the spray. "It's me. I'm in here."

He peers at the marbled glass shower wall. He can see a flesh-colored blur beyond, but not much else. She's sitting down. On top of the toilet seat. Her presence animates him, and he tries to focus on scrubbing himself down with the washcloth. On anything but her. The water plinks in the shower basin.

"Look, Derek," she says after a long pause. "I get that … you're in a different place than me. I get that you haven't has as much time to …. Well, to process this. Or whatever. You've only recently healed to the point where … all of this stuff matters, again, and I …."

He swallows around the lump in his throat.

"Are you hearing me?" she says, tone anxious.

"Yes," he says. "I hear."

"Okay," she says. "My point is …," she continues, "if you need to stomp and yell and throw things for a while, it's … it's okay. I'm sorry I yelled at you for …. I'm sorry I was trying to rush you. You're allowed to be … upset."

He presses his forehead against the tiles and sighs. "I don't **want** upset."

"I know." She moves. Her blur approaches the shower door. "Can I come in?"

He swallows. "Who are you talk to? On phone?"

"Stewart," she says without hesitation. "He … um. He gives me perspective, sometimes, when I need it."

"Oh," Derek says.

"So, can I come in?"

He closes his eyes. "If you want."

The shower door slides left on the tracks, and she stands there at the entrance. He watches as she peels off her shirt. And then her pants. And everything. And then she steps into the spray with him, into his space. He can't help but press his nose into her hair and take some comfort, just in the fact that she's standing there, even after everything.

"I'm sorry I frustrate you," he says. He looks at the floor. A pool of water gathers at his feet. "I frustrate me."

She looks up at him, and she shakes her head. "If stomping and yelling is what you need … stomp your heart out. Okay? I can't say I'll like it, but … don't worry about me for a little bit. Just …."

"What?" he says.

"Please, remember that you're here. With me and with the kids. You got hurt, but you didn't get dead. That's a miracle, not a punishment, no matter how rotten I know it must feel, sometimes." She hugs him. "They said you would die, and you didn't, and I'm **really** glad you broke the rules, just this once. I'm **so** glad. And I want you to be glad, too."

He nods. "I try, Meredith," he whispers. "I want …." He croaks to a halt. He sees the next word he wants at the top crag of a steep mountain, when he's all the way at the bottom, and he just …. He's worn out. He's tired of climbing, today.

Her fingers splay against his chest. "I know," she says. "You don't have to talk."

So, he doesn't. They don't. Instead, they kiss.

* * *

Meredith and Derek make love. She stands before him in the shower, naked, water sliding down her skin in the quiet thunder. His wet washcloth slaps onto the tile floor as he gives up all pretense of helping her wash.

Her nipples are pert, and she bites her lip suggestively, showing just a flashing hint of teeth. Everything about her is music for his eyes. A symphony. And desire coils inside him like leaves on a vine, starting as a seed below his navel, winding up his spine, entering his lungs, tightening his breaths, and, at last, curling around his heart, which starts to thump, thump, thump as the blood rushes in his ears. The feeling expands outward to his fingertips, until he can't take the waiting anymore, and he steps into her space to devour her.

_That's called desire. Frustration and pleasure in a blender._

The kiss is a desperate reaffirmation, and it feels so good after so much dissonance the past few weeks.

Her lips are wet and slippery, and her mouth is more so. He tastes her, plunging, until he draws a long moan from her throat. The noise is kindling for his inner burn.

He feels her fingertips sliding up his back. Then her fingers scrunch, and she rakes her nails against his skin. But the sensation is a distant thing.

He pushes her against the tiles. Her hand roams lower. She cups him, skin to naked skin, and then it's his turn to moan for her. He steps forward, grinds his pelvis, kisses her. Her grip tightens as he rubs his arousal against her body.

His mind is scattered embers, burning out and gone, but he's never done this before, in a shower, and the last time he was in a position to suggest it, his first time, she said it would be too complicated. He kisses her lips. Her cheek along the ridge of bone. Nips her earlobe. And then he presses his cheek to her temple, rasping against her ear, "… H … how?"

He dips to kiss her again. She bites his lip and makes a soft noise that he feels more than hears. She grabs his shoulders and guides him to the bench without speaking.

When she splays her palm against his chest, he gets what she wants.

He sits on the bench he uses when he's too tired to stand, the one she had installed for him before he came home. He leans back against the cold tile, looking up at her. She puts a knee by his right hip, then lifts her other leg onto the bench by his left hip, and then she straddles him, resting on her knees so her breasts are in a perfect place to- He takes the left one into his mouth, draws his tongue around the nipple, and then sucks. He's delighted by the lovely, skipping, hitching gasp she makes.

She drops her hand between them and wraps her fingers around his length. She shifts. And shifts. Looks down once. Shifts again. And then she lowers herself onto him, drawing herself into a kneeling position. The blast of wet, warm friction makes the whole world go fuzzy for a moment, and then ….

She's still.

They're face to face.

She smiles. "Hi," she murmurs, while they're joined.

Words are beyond him at this point. All he can do is stare drunkenly through his eyelashes at her and grin. She drags her fingers through his wet hair, and she kisses him.

"This is okay?" she confirms, and he nods.

With that assurance, she begins to rock against him. The apex of each motion crashes her lower body against him like a wave, and then she draws back again. Away. Too far. But the sliding motion along his length is-

A shivery, deep, rumbling noise coils in his throat.

_I desire you. You desire me?_

He grabs her hips with both hands and slides one thumb to the vee between her thighs to give her pleasure. They find a rhythm. One that's almost in time with his racing heart. Then their lips smash together, the final, unfurling layer of their chorus and refrain, while the shower water forms the drumbeats as it plinks against the basin.

_I'm not saying we should do it right now, but that's what leads to sex._

He hasn't quite gotten the hang of longevity, yet. Of holding himself back. His lower body tightens and tightens and tightens until that's all he can think about. That collapsing star feeling in his lower body. Like his insides are winding up for a pitch. Raspy grunts of encouragement fly loose from his throat in time with her wave, crashing, crashing, crashing. He grinds himself against her. He can't help it.

_I want sex._

His thighs and calves tense, and he pauses mid-kiss as his jaw locks. His lungs push out one final groan, and then his lower body kicks into motion.

_That's what your body is trying to say._

His world, for that moment, is him, inside her, spilling himself, giving himself to her.

As soon as he recovers from momentary synaptic overload, he resumes giving pleasure to her, instead of just taking it for himself. He goes flaccid, and his body slips out of hers, but all she need is his thumb. His thumb. Right. There.

"Oh," she blurts as she finds her own release.

She sags against him, panting.

For a long time, neither speaks, and the only noise is the rush of the shower. He almost falls asleep as post-orgasmic, hormone-induced lethargy bowls him over. Right there. Sitting on the bench, with her straddling him, naked. His neck loses traction, and his head dips forward, but then he catches himself before he face plants against her skin.

"God, I needed that," she murmurs against his shoulder. She looses a giant, relaxed, sated sigh. Her head tips, and her lips press against his jugular. " **We** needed that."

He and words still aren't quite copacetic, so he nods, and he brushes his fingers against her wet scalp.

She straightens so they're eye to eye, green eyes dark and wide and warm in the dim light. He stares back at her. She's gorgeous. Inside and out. And, somehow, despite all the horrendous, unlucky things that have happened to him, he feels like, with respect to this one thing, he lucked out more than anyone deserves.

He presses a kiss to her lips, and then leans back against the wall, relaxing while she cuddles up against him. She doesn't say anything, doesn't look away, just stares at him with a hooded expression. And he stares back.

But they don't need words to be comfortable or close.

He thinks, in this moment - with just him and just her, skin to skin, and silent - that **this** is a perfect vow, too.

He just wishes he knew how to translate this moment into g-rated words for an audience.

* * *

He doesn't wait for his appointment with Marie on Friday. He marches straight to her office, before he heads to Dean's for occupational therapy. Marie's sitting behind her desk, typing on her computer, when he knocks lightly on her open door. She holds up a finger to let him know she's heard him.

Derek waits, hunkering in the doorframe while she finishes what she's doing, and he finds himself staring at her hands like they might give him revelation. His eyes narrow as he tries to find any overt sign that she has the same motor control issues he does, but … he doesn't see anything. And he's staring. Like a hypocritical ass. He doesn't want to be rude, so, he looks down at his feet, instead. After a few moments, the clackity-clack-clack stops. She looks up from her monitor and grins.

"Derek, what can I do for you?" she says.

He swallows. "You said … I should see someone."

"I did," she says in a flat, cautious tone.

"May I have number?" he says, taking a hesitant step into the office. The orange walls surround him.

Her eyebrows raise. "For Dr. Flannigan?"

"The woman you recommend last week," he says.

She nods. "That's Dr. Flannigan."

"Yes," he says, stepping into her office. "Please? I …." He sighs. "I want to stop feeling … so angry. I hate this feel. If she can help, I … want this. Please, I want."

"I do think seeing her would really help you," Marie says.

"I will try anything," he says.

She nods with understanding and then looks up at the ceiling. "You know," she says slowly after a moment, "I think I have one of her business cards somewhere in my desk."

She tries to pull open the top drawer of her desk, and that's when he sees it. Her hands. Failing to grasp the drawer handle, which slips through her fingers like water. She makes another grab and gets it on the second try. If he hadn't been watching, he never would have noticed the tiny slip.

He wishes he could do that. Hide behind normality.

But he can't, now. He's been shown definitively that finding decent camouflage for himself is a pipe dream, and it's finally sinking in that a pipe dream is what it will **always** be. The realization is a black, churning pit in his stomach. It's a fist around his heart. And it's awful.

 _I wish that could be your perfect, too,_ he can hear Meredith saying. _I want that for you._

"I want to be happy," Derek says around the lump in his throat. In particular, he wants to be happy in May. For the vow renewal.

Marie pauses her search to give him a sympathetic look. "You can be," she says. "You will be." She smiles a soft smile. "Sometimes, we all need a little help." And then she looks back down at her desk drawer.

He takes a seat on her navy blue couch, and he waits for salvation while she rummages.

* * *

At this point, Derek's gotten used to press and paparazzi snapping the occasional photo when he's at basketball games with Stewart. The reporters sometimes approach to ask questions, but for the most part, they stay a respectable distance away and aren't intrusive. They're just doing their job, and, while Stewart's presence is news, he's been retired long enough and been spotted in the Pacific Northwest often enough, at this point, that him being there, popping up at all manner of random basketball games, from NBA, to WNBA, to NCAA, and even to a few high school games here and there, isn't worth much more than a mention in an article, or a picture and a caption.

Stewart's gotten used to the peripheral, unobtrusive attention, too. Or, so Derek thought, until they're at a jam-packed, riotous Huskies game on the University of Washington campus on Friday night, the flash of a camera snaps a bit closer than usual, and Stewart's gaze jerks in the direction the blast of light came from. He gets this tooth-bearing scowl on his face that reminds Derek of Wolverine a little bit, and then Stewart raises his middle finger toward the interloper.

Derek frowns. He hasn't seen that before that he can remember, but based on the look on Stewart's face, it's not nice. "What is that gesture?" he says.

Stewart glowers as he takes a sip from his beer. "It means fuck off."

Derek's frown deepens. "Is something … wrong?"

"Wrong?" Stewart says with a snort. "What could be wrong?"

"You seem … mad."

Stewart sighs. He stares at the court for a moment. He doesn't have the same connections for college basketball as he does for professional basketball, so he and Derek aren't sitting right behind the sidelines, tonight. Rather, they're about thirty rows back, buried in a pile of other fans, and Coach Romar, who's pacing up and down the line of benched players, is kind of tiny from this vantage point. The air is hot and smells like stale popcorn and sweat.

The Huskies' point guard dribbles down the court at a full sprint, while the defense scrambles into their zones. Twenty shifting sprinting sneakers squeak against the shiny wooden floor. The lights are bright and beating and harsh, and Derek finds himself having to squint to get his eyes to focus. The point guard passes center court and tosses the ball to a player farther down. The player who catches the ball, a young, tall, spindly man who looks kind of like Stewart - if Stewart were half a foot shorter and had hopped into a time machine to go back to college - sets his feet, raises the ball above his head, and lobs a shot from way behind the three point line. The ball arcs through the air like a launched missile and passes through the net with an unmistakable, satisfying swish.

The crowd erupts into screams and cheers of approval.

Derek can't help but wince at the aural pounding, though it was an amazing play.

But Stewart doesn't look appreciative like usual. Only more annoyed. He shifts in his seat, agitated, and finally slumps. "Look, can we go?"

"… Okay," Derek says. The game is noisy enough that he's happy for a break, anyway. Sometimes, he watches with his earplugs, and he was thinking he might have to pull those out, soon.

Stewart grabs his crutches and hoists himself to his feet, leaving his beer behind in the cupholder. Sweat beads Stewart's pale brow like he might be in pain, though he says nothing about it. He's wearing his thick knee brace, today, and bought two seats for himself so he could keep his leg elevated. Derek hasn't seen him use the crutches or wear the thick brace in a long while.

Stewart grapples his way awkwardly through the crowded row, stalks into the access hallway, wrestles his large, gangly body past the turnstiles and the ticket vendors, and heads outside. Derek follows along after grabbing Stewart's discarded beer bottle. They slam through the double doors out into the freezing parking lot. It's dark and wet, and nobody else is out walking around. Even from outside in the quiet night, though, the waxing and waning rumble of the crowd can be heard through the windows ventilating the gym near its ceiling.

Stewart comes to a stop at the end of the sidewalk, rather than pushing onward to the parking lot.

"Is this mad … at me?" Derek says.

At first, Stewart glares. And then the glare relaxes. "No, I'm …." He sighs. "I'm sorry. I'm doing it again."

"Doing what again?"

"Being a dick to my friends," Stewart says. He swallows. "I'm …." A wince slides across his face. Derek's not sure if it's pain or regret. Stewart fixates on a concrete bench across the walk and swings on his crutches, reaching it in one long stride. He sits with a sigh and sets the crutches down next to him, and then he says nothing at all.

Derek moves to the bench as well and sits gingerly beside Stewart. He puts Stewart's beer on the cold, damp concrete by Stewart's hip. "Do you want … talk?"

Stewart frowns. "You hate talking."

Derek sighs. Meredith thought that, too, at one point. "Not with you," he says. "If you … go slow." He raises his eyebrows. "Maybe, I help?"

"I'm just …. I don't know what to do, now."

"About?" Derek prods.

"All I'm good at is this fucking **game**." And then a look of utter desolation crosses Stewart's dark eyes. "All I **was** good at. I guess I'm not good at **anything** now, am I." A question, but not a question. He grabs the beer Derek retrieved for him and swigs and swigs, Adam's apple rolling along his throat as he gulps, until the bottle is empty.

"This is not true," Derek says.

Stewart sets down the empty bottle. A chattering, giggling couple, wrapped together like two joined pretzels under the same raincoat, trots down the sidewalk. The giggling stops when the pair gets close to Stewart and Derek's bench. One of the pair's eyes widens when he gets a look at Stewart, and Derek hears a tiny, tiny, frantic, whispered discussion carry across the breeze from the other guy.

"Oh, that him."

"No way."

"Yes! Told saw."

The pair doesn't stop walking, but they slow a bit, like they're rubbernecking at an accident.

"Yes," Stewart snaps. "It me. You can stop debate move along."

One of them dares to step closer. "Would you sign my-"

" **Lost!** " Stewart growls.

The couple bolts at his harsh tone, and Derek can't help but gape. He's never seen Stewart be nasty to a fan. Not ever. In fact, Derek can't count the number of times his own back has been converted into a makeshift signing table, because Stewart hasn't, before this moment, seemed to know the meaning of the word no. Women, men, kids, old people, young people - it doesn't matter. If they ask for an autograph, they get an autograph.

"Sometimes, I envy you **so** much," Stewart says, tone wistful as he switches back to slower-paced words for Derek's benefit.

Derek blinks, pulled from his musing. His jaw clacks shut. "Me? … But … **why**?"

"How can you miss a job you barely remember doing in the first place?" Stewart says.

Derek frowns. He doesn't miss being a doctor. He doesn't. But, "I miss other thing …."

Like when taking Bailey or Zola to a damned playground was something he could do by himself. Or when he could talk to Meredith or Stewart or anyone without wrapping his mental car around a tree, because he didn't have to try so hard to be coherent. Or when he didn't feel so pissed off all the time. Or ….

_You should ask her out, man._

_Ask who?_

_Black hair. Boobs. At the bar. A total ten._

_Oh, shut up, Mark._

_You wouldn't rather do that than study?_

_No._

_Whatever, man. Your pickup lines suck balls, anyway._

_They do not._

_Oh, yeah? Prove it, tea bagger. I bet you-_

The wisp of Mark floats away. Derek can't imagine being brave enough to walk up to a strange woman at a bar, now, let alone ask her out, let alone do so with any sort of suaveness or grace. He wonders what the pickup line was. Or who the woman was. Or anything. He hates not having context anymore. And he misses being suave so much it physically hurts when he thinks about it.

"I miss … many," Derek says.

"I know," Stewart says with a hefty sigh. "I'm sorry. I guess I'm still being a dick. I just …." He props his pointy elbows on his bony thighs and presses his face into his hands. "What the hell am I going to do?"

"I thought you like to be dad."

"I do. I do. I **love** my kids," Stewart is quick to reply, muffled through his hands. He rubs his face with his palms and peeks over the tips of his fingers for a moment. Then raises his head to look at Derek. "They're the best thing I've ever made. Period. I'm sure you know the feeling."

Derek nods.

"But they're both in school, now, and …."

"This is not enough?" Derek says.

"I don't **know** ," Stewart snaps. And then he adds in a woeful tone, "I don't know if I'm cut out to be a house husband. I'm going a little crazy." He peers at Derek. "Is it enough for you? Don't you ever feel a little stir crazy?"

A lump forms in Derek's throat. He stares across the lawn. "I can't go anywhere," he says. He doesn't have the luxury of feeling stir crazy.

"I guess that was a stupid question," Stewart replies. He looses a bitter laugh. "God, I'm sorry. I can't seem to stop being a dick tonight."

"I wish I can help you," Derek says.

"I wish I could help **you** ," Stewart says.

"You do."

Stewart folds his arms. "Well you do, too. So, there."

Derek frowns.

Stewart sighs. "Jeez, we're a pair."

"A pair?" Derek replies.

Stewart nods. "Of very sad saps."

"I don't know what sad sap is."

"You know … that's a good attitude," Stewart says with a snort. "I'm going to pretend I don't know, either. That way, I don't have to know I'm being one."

"I'm not pretend. I don't know."

"Shh," Stewart says, nudging Derek in the ribs with his elbow. "Just work with me, Derek." The distant rumble of the crowd explodes into full crescendo. A horn blows. Stewart glances at the gym, breath like foggy mist curling from his parted lips. "You want to go back inside? I'm sorry I dragged us out. I just got …."

"I know," Derek says. "I get like this also, sometime."

"It sucks when it happens. It's like a bulldozer, flattening happiness and optimism like they're wet cement."

Derek swallows. "Yes."

They sit in silence for a moment. A frigid, wet, whistling breeze blows. The crowd yells in the distance again, just as Derek's coat loses the battle against chill, and he starts to shiver.

"It was good game," Derek hazards through chattering teeth.

"It was, wasn't it?" Stewart says. "C'mon, I'll buy you a beer."

"Stewart …."

"I know, I know," Stewart says. "You hate beer." He grins. It's the first grin Derek's seen on him all night, and it's nice to see, though it's a bit more brittle than it should be. "But offering was totally worth that hysterical oh-my-god-I'd-rather-eat-bugs look on your face."

Derek rolls his eyes. They head back into the main building and out of the cold. A blast of warmth hits Derek's face as the two of them plod through a long row of double doors. "Meet you there," Stewart says after they pass the turnstiles. He nods toward the refreshment vendor to indicate his destination, and then he splits off in that direction while Derek continues back to their seats.

The game is in half time, and as Derek finds his row, Harry the Husky is doing some silly dance with the cheerleaders. Loud music with abrasive cymbal crashes blasts over the speakers, and, once he sits, Derek pushes the tragus of each ear against his skull to block out the worst of it. As soon as the song changes, he fumbles in his jacket pocket for his earplugs. They're godsends at events like this, noisy places where he doesn't have to hold a conversation or listen to somebody talk, and the only goal is to dampen all the noise.

It's not until he's done fumbling with the earplugs that he realizes the skit on the floor has changed. The cheerleaders are carrying massive cue cards, each with a giant block letter painted on it. The squad members are moving too fast for Derek to read what they're trying to spell, so he doesn't try, though it's clearly something positive from the way the crowd explodes into raucous cheers, but-

Inspiration hits.

Stewart says something as he collapses into the seat next to Derek's with a hefty sigh. He pulls his beer from the canvas cupholder he keeps around his neck when he's using crutches, and puts it in the cup holder attached to the seat. Then he uses both hands to lift his braced leg onto the seat beside him.

Derek frowns and pulls out the earplugs. "What? I didn't hear."

"I was gone five minutes, and you went from sad sap to Crown," Stewart says.

Derek's frown deepens. Even with the earplugs out, he's hearing nonsense. "… What?"

"It's a tasty maple syrup brand that's much more happy than sad," Stewart explains, and then he shakes his head and waves a long, lithe hand dismissively. "Never mind. So, what happened?"

A slow, pleased smile slides across Derek's face. "I think I have an idea for vow."

"Oh, good, at least **something** good came from this mope fest," Stewart says. He grins, and he leans closer. "Do tell."

A buzzer blares, and Derek winces. "After game, okay?" he says before putting the earplugs back in.

Stewart nods, and they settle in to watch the second half.

* * *

Derek gets home so late after the game that it's Saturday. After such a noisy night, his head feels like soup, and he's tired, and he's not thinking very straight. He stumbles into bed without much thought.

Meredith shifts under the covers, rolling toward him. She settles her head against his chest. "Hey," she says, but she doesn't say more than that, for which he's grateful. She knows he tends to come home a bit wrecked after games, particularly after the big, crowded ones.

He kisses the top of her head.

And then he sleeps.

* * *

He slumbers well past noon and finds Meredith at the dining room table with the kids. The clouds have parted, offering rare, unadulterated winter sunlight, and she's sitting in a bath of it. Dust motes float lazily around her. She's still wearing her pajamas and her bright red bathrobe. Her hair is a bit kinked. There's not a single hint of makeup on her face. But she's rested, and her eyes are bright, and, to him, she's the most beautiful thing in the world.

She and the kids are making … construction paper somethings, with safety scissors and glitter and glue and markers. There's a veritable galaxy of fantastical art projects strewn across the table's surface.

"Hey," Meredith says, grinning as he grabs an orange from the kitchen counter and a paper towel from the roll, and then pads over on bare feet to join them. "Good morning."

"It's not morning, Mommy," Zola says.

Meredith rolls her eyes. "Yes, Zozo, I know."

"Hello," Derek says, the word soft. He's still sleepy-eyed and not quite awake, yet. He just … wants to be near.

"Look, Dada! I draw us!" Bailey says.

Derek glances at Bailey's green construction paper. There are two purple stick figures and a haphazardly drawn swing set. At least, that's what Derek thinks he's looking at.

Something in his chest tightens, but not in a bad way, for once. A smile slides across his face. "We are … at playground?" Derek says.

"Yep!" Bailey says. "I do de swide next."

Derek's smile widens. "This is … a good draw," he murmurs, and he begins to peel his orange.

* * *

"I think we should invite whole list," Derek tells Meredith when she climbs into bed that night. He sets down his magazine on his nightstand.

She raises her eyebrows as she looks at him. "Really?"

He nods.

"You're sure that won't be too much for you?" Meredith says.

"No," he admits. "But … I want them here. And …." And he needs to learn to do this. Put himself out there, even when there's a chance he'll be embarrassed.

The mattress dips as she lets her weight sink into it. She regards him for a long moment, eyes calculating. And then she smiles. "Okay. If you're sure."

He nods again. He rolls onto his side and props his head up on his arm. "You say pick venue, now, yes?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Do you have … venue idea?"

"Yeah, actually, a few," she says. She leans over to pull a thick spiral notebook from her nightstand. She flips past the title page and keeps flipping. She's scrawled notes like spider webbing across page after page. A stack of pamphlets falls out when she arrives at her destination in the middle.

"Wow," he says. He scoots closer and resettles. "You do a lot of work already."

She blushes. "I told you. It's my happy place."

"I know," he says, grinning. "I want this place, too. Show me?"

And she does.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here we are. At the end. I know you all have probably ODed on angst, at this point. So, here is the requisite happiness to pay you back for bearing with me! I really hope you've enjoyed this story as much as I enjoyed writing it! Thank you, as always, to everybody who takes the time to leave feedback. I really appreciate it. I do have another WIP that I hope to finish soon - look for The Road Not Taken within the next few months. (Also known as Switch, for those who chat with me on Twitter.)

March … isn't great.

But he has a moment in mid-April on a Saturday. It's not anywhere close to his first moment. And it certainly won't be his last. What makes this moment unique in his recent history is that it sticks for longer than an ephemeral instant.

He's blowing bubbles with Zola and Bailey in the back yard. The bubbles float on the breeze in unpredictable ways. The kids are running around the yard like helter-skelter bumble bees as they chase the jiggling shapes. His children are laughing and laughing, and Derek doesn't have to say anything. All he has to do is stand there and be that guy blowing bubbles for his kids to catch.

Clarity rings like a bell.

He's alive, and he's having a moment with his children, whom he loves, and in this moment, he's happy. He's happier than any words could ever translate that he gets to do this. To see this.

To be here. On this earth. Now. Being the person who gives Zola and Bailey so much simple joy.

He almost didn't have this.

"Daddy, watch!" Zola says as she leaps for a bubble like she's a tiger, complete with a furious, yet cherubic, roar. When she catches her "mouse," it bursts, and she giggles and roars again.

He laughs. "I see! You very good at leap."

He can hear Mark beside him. A wisp. An echo. _Tag! You're it!_

From when, Derek doesn't know. Years ago, he supposes.

"Hey," Meredith says as she comes up behind him in the late afternoon. Her hair is golden blond in the long daylight. The sun turns her eyes to green sparklers, and she squints as she regards him.

She's been gone all day, since before he woke up. With him able to watch the kids when Melody isn't available, Meredith's working more, now. Odd hours. Long hours. Making up for the two years when her schedule was so rigid and limited, and the only reason she could keep it that way and not lose her job was by the grace of the hospital, giving her a break, and by the grace of her understanding coworkers, for not complaining about her having such choice hours.

"Daddy, more!" Bailey demands, tromping at Derek's feet - Bailey's started calling Derek Daddy on and off instead of Dada within the last few weeks. Derek obliges his growing son, dipping the purple stick into the soap and raising it to his lips to blow on it. More giggles. More shrieks.

 _Red rover, red rover, send Derek right over_ _,_ Mark chants.

Derek can't help but smile as he glances at Meredith. "Hello. Work is okay?"

She nods, and she sidles next to him. She slips her hand into his opposite back jean pocket. He leans right and kisses her cheek.

"You seem like you're in a good mood today," she says.

He nods, smile burgeoning. "Yes," he says. "I'm happy."

And he carries that feeling through the entire weekend.

* * *

The room is bustling. Along the far wall are about ten booths. Three long rows of puke-green, plastic chairs fill the bulk of the space in the room. Tired, frustrated, or downright bored patrons fill most of them. Muted sunlight streams in at a slant through the windows. Dingy faux floral arrangements and a smattering of magazines on the end tables cheer the place up from clinical immaculate to almost homey, at least. So, the wait isn't as awful as it could be.

"Now serving customer seventy-three," states a flat, automated voice through the overhead speakers. "Now serving customer seventy-three."

Meredith sighs and lifts her head off his shoulder long enough to unfold the crumpled slip of paper where their number is printed. Seventy-five. They still have a little while to wait, and they've been here for an hour, already. He kisses the top of her head.

"You're sure … this is okay?" he says.

She sits up straight and gives him a long look. "No, I'm not sure. Not even remotely sure. But …." Her gaze softens. "You need this. And there's no logical reason not to, at this point. And … my "not sure,"' she says, putting air quotes around the words not and sure, "will just have to buck up and **get** sure."

He sighs, staring into space. The car had been irreparably smashed. The only thing that made it out of the crash in one literal piece was him, functional, but broken. And it was his fault. He can't blame her for not being sure. But he loves her so much for fighting her misgivings.

"Now serving customer seventy-four."

"I'm sorry I worry you," he says. "I wish I knew …." What the hell had possessed him to be so stupid.

"I know," Meredith says, the words soft. "Me, too."

But it's not a fixable thing, nor is it a solvable mystery. All he can do is promise he'll never play so fast and loose with his own life again, which he has. And all they can do is move on, which they're doing. Trying to do.

"Thank you," he murmurs against her ear.

She shrugs. "What's that saying?" she says, a twinkle in her eye. "If you love something, let it go?"

He grins. After their first few discussions about this, she showed him that quote on her laptop. It was part of a funny cartoon thing. She called it a meme. "I promise I come back," he says. He kisses her. "I'm yours."

"Good," she says in a throaty tone.

"Now serving customer seventy-five," states the automated voice. "Now serving customer seventy-five."

Meredith hooks her arm around his as they stand up. "Here we go," she says. He doesn't miss the sudden flood of tension in her tone or in her posture. They walk as a pair toward the booth with the red flashing number seventy-five.

A frazzled clerk with bags under her eyes looks at them. "How help?" she says, mumbling in a way that makes it hard for him to pick out individual words, but … he heard enough, he thinks. _How can I help you?_

Meredith glances at Derek. He licks his lips, takes a breath, and says, "I want to reinstate my … driver license." It's the sentence he practiced with Meredith in the car on the way over to the DMV. Over and over. Reinstate was a new word for him. A bit of a tongue twister.

The clerk gives him a bored look. "Why revoke?"

He blinks. "Revoke?"

"She's asking you why they took your license away," Meredith murmurs beside him.

Oh. Revoke. Take away. He files that away for future use. "They … re … re … revoke … because I have … a brain injury," he says to the clerk, body tensing up with every stutter. He glances at her, apprehensive. No camouflage for him.

Whatever the clerk is thinking, she doesn't give him any hints. "Seizure within six months?" the clerk says, eyebrows raised.

He shakes his head. "No."

"He had one about two years ago when he was on the operating table after the injury, and then another a few days after, just before his second surgery," Meredith interjects. "They kept him on anti-epileptics for a year before weaning him off, and he hasn't had one since then."

Derek glances at her, chest tightening. He hates to think about how hard that must have been for her. Handling everything right after the accident.

"Need doctor medical release form," the clerk says, grabbing a form from one of the many disheveled stacks in her cubicle. The form she picks up is printed on puke-green-colored paper, the same color as the chairs in the room. She slides the form under the glass window toward him.

Derek doesn't take it. He pulls a folded piece of paper from his jeans pocket. A matching puke-green-colored form. It's signed in blue ink by Dr. Wyckoff. "I have this, but-"

"Then, you written test," the clerk replies, interrupting him.

She pushed his mental train off the tracks, and for a moment, all he can do is stare, wordless. Meredith glances at him, and then at the clerk. Derek looks up at the ceiling, thinking for a moment, trying with all his will not to give in to the urge to stammer random syllables until something works. The clerk's staring at him, but not with any judgement, he makes himself decide. With boredom, maybe. With the desperation of being stuck in a job she dislikes, maybe. But he can understand that. He tries not to take that personally. And he tries not to create narratives where she's thinking he's stupid.

 _Everyone has a story and a life outside your orbit, and you don't know what's going on in theirs, just like they don't know what's going on in yours,_ he can hear Dr. Flannigan coaching him. _Try to frame negative looks with stories about that, instead of stories about them judging you._

"My … situation … odd," he explains as the words slog to him through mental mud. "Is odd." He swallows. "I don't know drive." He winces. "How. How to. How to drive."

The clerk frowns. She says a bunch of things in a rush that he can't separate into individual words. All he gleans is, "Reinstate."

_You can get away with, "I don't understand," with people at the rehab center, and with your family and friends, because they know the details of your situation, and that's probably spoiled you a little. Strangers_ _**don't** _ _know the details. Be specific, and explain what about the conversation or surroundings are impacting how well you're understanding it. You don't have to go into detail about your injury - you don't even need to tell people you have one - but you_ _**need** _ _to help people, so they can help_ _**you** _ _._

He leans closer to the window that separates them. "I … have trouble understanding … many fast word," he says, tapping his ear. "Can you say … more slow?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," the clerk replies, looking genuinely apologetic, and he lets himself relax a little. She slows down when she says, "I thought you said you wanted to get your license **re** instated."

He nods. "I do want this."

Her fuzzy eyebrows knit together, frown deepening. "Well, if you don't know how to drive, then how did you get your license before?"

He takes a deep breath and tries to gather his wits. His first few tries only result in silence. For a moment, he can't remember how to engage his vocal cords, and his heart pounds in his throat. He closes his eyes, and he thinks. Meredith squeezes his arm.

"I …." Remember. Memory. Blank. "F-forget," he manages in a wobbly tone. "The hurt …." He shakes his head. "Injury. Injury make me forget how."

The clerk stares for a long moment, frowning. "Um … this is a pretty unusual scenario," she says.

He snorts, and he gives the clerk a wobbly, self-deprecating grin. "This is what I said."

The clerk grins back at him. "You got me. I should have believed you."

"We couldn't find any information online," Meredith chimes in. "Does he need to be kind, rewind, and get a learner's permit? Or does he just need restrictions put on his regular license? Or …?"

The clerk is nodding, now, expression thoughtful. "Let me … find my supervisor," she says after a moment. "Wait right here."

Meredith slumps against the booth with a sigh as the clerk departs. "Well," she says. "At least, now, we know officially that you're weird according to the State of Washington, and that our Google skills aren't the issue."

He laughs, and he leans against the lip of the counter to kiss her. "I'm glad I amuse," he says.

They settle in to wait.

* * *

"Ready?" Meredith says as she steps into the kitchen area.

Derek grins and nods. The air is full of a distant murmur of voices. He takes the matchbook from the drawer and pulls one out. He offers it to Meredith.

She shakes her head. "No, you do it. You baked it."

He drags a match against the striker plate to light it, and then he lowers it to the first candle, and then the second, and then the third, and the fourth. Four candles. A lump forms in Derek's throat. Bailey's getting so big ….

Meredith grabs the cake, grinning, oblivious to his attack of sentimentality. They head out to the deck where the crowd is waiting. His mom. Amelia. Owen. Maggie. Richard. Catherine. Stewart. Sarah. Annie. Lindsey. Alex. Jo. Zola. And Bailey in a little cone-shaped hat.

All of them sit ringed around the glass table on the deck, underneath the big green umbrella, which flaps in the gentle breeze. The May air is balmy, and the sunset over the valley is a gorgeous, impressionistic painting of purple, pink, and orange streaks. Just a little family gathering before the big shebang tomorrow for Bailey and all his friends from Gymboree and Tumble-for-Tots.

"Happy birthday to you," Meredith sings as she and Derek approach with the cake and lit candles. Her voice is a little off key, and when everybody joins in, they're also off key, and the result is an inharmonious mess, but it's perfect, anyway.

"Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday dear Bailey. Happy birthday to you."

Derek can't keep up with the words when they're sung at that speed, so he hums along. Bailey's eyes get big and wide when he sees the frosted chocolate cake, and he gets this delighted _it's-sugar!-so-so-so-much-sugar!_ expression on his face. Zola claps and bounces in her seat.

Bailey leans forward, inhaling.

"No, you gotta make a wish!" Zola instructs.

"Wike what?" he says, frowning.

Derek eases into the chair next to Bailey as he listens to Zola instruct her little brother on the finer arts of wish making. He should hope for a pony, Zola suggests. Meredith settles into the chair next to Derek. Bailey takes a deep breath and blows dramatically on all the tiny, dancing flames.

"I still say you shoulda tried the ones that don't blow out," Stewart quips.

"How do you feel … to be four?" Derek says to Bailey, ignoring Stewart.

Bailey only frowns, though. He ponders this question for all of three seconds before saying, "I have cake, now?"

Everyone shares a laugh. "Yes," Derek says. He leans forward to grab the serving knife.

His chest aches, tonight, but … it's a wonderful sort of ache. He meant what he said, months ago, when he talked in the car with Meredith after his first Parents with TBIs meeting at the rehab center. If the loss of being able to speak fluently is what allowed him to see his kids grow up ….

At least it paid for a good thing.

A great thing.

The best thing.

Now, he's seen both children turn a year older, repainting what had been blank in his head since the accident. He'll never have one or two for Bailey back. Or one, two, three, or four for Zola. But three for Bailey and five for Zola in the rehab center, and, now, four and six, respectively, in his own home, he plans to cherish forever. And he plans to see all the rest, until the day that he dies.

_One-hundred and ten._

"Happy birthday, Bailey," he says, unable to help the silly grin on his face as he serves his son a big piece of cake.

* * *

After everyone is stuffed full of cake, the crowd has left, Carolyn's gone to bed, the kids are tucked in, and the house is, at last, quiet, Meredith flops onto the sofa beside Derek. He's working his way through _Charlotte's Web -_ it's hard for him, he's having trouble understanding the plot, and it's taking him a while to muddle through, but he feels like he's getting better. A little. He's flipping pages faster as he gets closer to the end, at least. He thinks he'll have to reread it a few times to "get it," though. When he reaches the end of the sentence he's on, he puts his finger on the page where he stopped, and he looks up.

"Have you finished your vows, yet?" Meredith says.

He dog ears the page of his book and sets it on the end table. "Yes, why?" he says.

"Can I see them?" she says. When he frowns, she rushes to add, "It's just … I suck at mushy. I need some ideas from the master."

"I … don't think I'm master at this anymore."

She looks up at him with bright eyes. "That's not true. Not even a little. You say things all the freaking time."

He looks at his lap, sudden insecurity burgeoning. Yes, he did write vows. He spent all yesterday on them, and the day before that, but …. His effort hadn't been spent on poetry, but rather at talking. To Stewart. For hours. Talking until Derek's brain felt like it was melting out through his ears. Trying to figure out a way to say what he wanted that wasn't too hard for him to reliably say, let alone reliably say under pressure.

On the final iteration, after Derek had explained the context, Stewart had snorted and said, _Well, gee, man. If she doesn't like that,_ _ **I'll**_ _marry you. Are you down with polygamy?_

Forty-eight hours of work for a few sentences. "They're … not so much long," Derek admits.

She shrugs. "I didn't expect them to be long."

He offers her a wavering grin. "I don't expect yours to be mush."

She scoots closer, until her body is a line of warmth against his hip and side. "Can I see them, anyway?" she prods. With her tone of voice, and the way she's looking at him, there's already no way he's going to say no. But then she adds a, "Please?"

He shifts to the right and pulls out the printout he made yesterday. The paper is creased and well worn already. He's been pulling it out every time he thinks about it, practicing the words once or twice before putting the paper back in his pocket, trying to make the words rote. He has a fallback if his throat closes up during the ceremony, but … he doesn't want to use it. He wants to say every syllable, and he wants to say them in the moment.

He hands her the wrinkled sheet. "I … type … typed. I typed them. Stewart help."

The paper crinkles as she holds the sides. She takes about ten seconds to read all the words. "These are …." She swallows. "This is …." When she looks at him, she's brushing her eyes with her fingers. "This is **really** sweet."

"I … tried to listen. You said-"

"I know what I said," she replies. "Derek, I love them."

"Really?"

"Yeah," she says. "Can I …. Do you mind if I borrow this? I can work with this." She leans forward like she expects him to say yes, and she intends to get up.

"They are … in file on … desktop," he rushes to say. "A. A file. Your desktop. Laptop. I borrow. I …." He sighs as he gets himself tongue-tied. An unfortunate side-effect whenever he tries to talk fast. He reaches for the paper. "M … Meredith, I need …." This. This. **No.** "That."

She frowns, but she hands it back to him.

"I'm … p … practice," he says.

"Oh," she says.

"I want to say this … perfect."

"I know," she says. She kisses him. "My laptop, you said?"

He nods. She slides off the couch and heads toward her office.

"Meredith?" he calls after her. She stops in the archway and looks back at him, eyebrows raised. "I don't need … mush," he tells her. "I just … you." He smiles. "Whatever you will say is perfect."

"I love you, too," she replies. "And you remember what **I** said, right?"

"All I need is … show up for … perfect," he says.

She smiles. And she nods. And then she leaves the room.

* * *

By mid-May, he still gets days when all he can think about is what he's lost, and why he's lost it, and all he can be is **mad** , no matter how hard he tries to convince himself not to be. But the mad days are fewer and farther between. And today? Today isn't one of those days.

He flips the last pancake out of the hot pan and onto the plate, creating a perfect, golden brown stack of five, and turns off the burner. He sets the plate on the tray with some silverware, a napkin, a little syrup bottle, a glass of orange juice, and a slender vase. The vase is filled with a haphazard collection of spring flowers. He's pretty sure a lot of them are weeds, like dandelions, but they're still colorful, and the kids are the ones who picked them when he took them for a walk by the lake yesterday.

"Ready?" he says, grinning down at Zola and Bailey, who are gathered at his feet. They each have homemade cards clutched in their hands.

"Yeah!" Bailey says with a bounce.

Zola says, "Can I carry the tray? Please, Daddy, can I? Pleeeeeeeeeease?"

He regards her for a long moment. She's six, now. Getting big. And he thinks … why not let her try, sans a few of the more precarious breakables? "You be **very** careful," he says. "You go **slow**. Slow like when I need cane."

She nods.

He takes the glass of orange juice and the vase off the tray to carry them separately and lowers the rest down to her level. "Give card to Bailey," he instructs. She does. And then she holds out her arms. He lets her get a good grip on the tray's sides. "Got it?" he says.

She nods.

He gradually lets her take the full weight. When it looks like she's balanced and ready, he steps back. He lets Zola lead the way toward the master bedroom, stepping in front only to open the door for her.

Meredith's sitting in the lounge chair in a muted bath of Sunday morning sunlight, groggily sipping at some steaming coffee. "Derek, I-"

" **HAPPY MOMMY DAY**!" Bailey shouts as he barrels into the room before Zola can even take a step across the threshold.

Meredith blinks, looking up from her steaming mug with a surprised expression. She only has enough time to put her coffee cup down on the end table before Bailey's wriggling in her lap. Zola approaches a bit more cautiously, nursing the tray with care. Derek walks behind.

"Oh, my .… Seriously?" Meredith says, grunting as Bailey squirms and giggles. "I forgot .…" She blinks and looks up, over the top of Bailey's blond head, at Derek. "Seriously?"

He grins. "Yes," he says. Once Zola sets the tray on the end table with Meredith's coffee, he leans over Meredith and places the vase and the orange juice back in their spots next to the pancake plate. And then he kisses her. "I remembered you get a day in May." He nuzzles her. "Happy Mother Day."

"I can't believe .…" She shakes her head. "Seriously?"

Her dumbfounded stammering makes his day. His week. His month.

She brushes her eyes with her hands, grunting as Zola climbs up into the chair to join her and Bailey in the family sandwich. "We made you cards!" Zola says.

Meredith opens Bailey's card first. It's orange and blue and covered with green scribbles. "Oh, **wow**. I **see** you made cards," she says. Her voice is thick when she says, "Thank you, guys. This was really sweet."

"Look at mine!" Zola demands.

Meredith laughs. "I am, I am." She opens Zola's card, next. It's covered in rainbows and hearts on the outside and, inside, there's a latticework of xoxoxo. "This is very pretty," she says to Zola, still grinning. "I love the rainbows, in particular. Thank you!"

Zola beams. "You're welcome, Mommy."

Meredith glances at Derek. "Don't tell me you made one, too?"

He shakes his head. "No, I have other thing to give later."

"What?" she says.

"Hmm." He makes a show of moving his mouth without speaking. "I can't say this word."

Truthfully, he sought out the masseuse at the rehab center to ask for some pointers. After that, he bought bath salts, and candles, and massage oil, and some other stuff. Including fresh batteries for her vibrator. As soon as the kids are in bed, he intends to pamper her all evening.

Meredith regards him for a long, long moment, eyes narrowing. "Derek Shepherd, are you actually using your aphasia as a fake excuse to obfuscate?" she says, eyes twinkling.

"I don't know," he says with an innocent shrug. "What is obfuscate?"

"It means to hide stuff."

"No, I honest can't say. Sorry." At this point, he can't hold onto his poker face anymore, though, and a smile escapes. "I guess you have to surprise." His smile wrecked it. He can see from her incredulous expression. Oops. So, he throws the ruse away and winks.

She rolls her eyes at him. "I can't believe this," she says. "I can't .…" She blinks. "You and your cheesy .…"

She doesn't finish her sentence, because Zola tugs on Meredith's scarlet-colored bathrobe. "Mommy, do you like the flowers?"

"We pick dem!" Bailey says.

"I see!" Meredith says. "They're very pretty." She pulls a cotton-ball-sized yellow bloom loose from the vase and gives it a sniff. "They smell so good! Where did you find these?"

Zola and Bailey launch into a narrative about their latest lake adventure. Derek snorts with amusement as he wobbles back a step and sits on the lip of their bed to watch, more than happy to let the kids steal back their much-deserved thunder. His chest constricts, but it's the good kind of hurt again. He almost didn't have this.

He almost didn't.

But he's really glad he does.

* * *

By the end of May, he's feeling even better. The vow renewal is coming up in June - a little later than they'd wanted, but the earliest date the hotel had available. He hasn't had a single angry day in over two weeks. And, instead of thinking back to all the things he regrets, or he doesn't remember, or that he can't do anymore, he's looking forward. To all the things he **hopes** to do.

He wants to laugh, not cry. For the rest of his life.

He wants to try going camping with Stewart, for one, wants to start filling that cold, empty Land Rover with recollections. He wants to go on a trip with Meredith. Just him and her. No kids. Maybe, in the trailer. He's not sure where, yet. Down the coast, perhaps. For some reason, his head is stuck on wine country. Forty-eight hours. Uninterrupted. He wants to take the kids to Disneyland. Maybe, not this year, but soon. He wants to be able to read _The Sun Also Rises_ at some point. He's been curious about it ever since he saw it on the bookshelf - Meredith tells him it used to be his favorite. Which brings him to …. He wants to take some classes. Maybe, something that will help him learn practical things like balancing their checking accounts and paying taxes. Maybe, something purely for fun, like a culinary class.

He'll have to make a list.

He's starting to have so many hopes he can't remember them all when Meredith asks him about them.

* * *

June 1 arrives. A Thursday. Derek's been home all day with Bailey and Zola, who's out of school for the summer. They're all making macaroni art at the dining room table when he hears Meredith shuffle through the doorway and drop her stuff on the center island in the kitchen. He puts down the glue bottle and heads to the door to greet her while the kids continue working on their projects.

Meredith smiles when she sees him. "Hello," he says. They share a kiss.

"You got a letter from Zola's school," she says when he pulls away. She points to the pile of mail she brought in when she arrived. There's a small envelope with a little stamp and a handwritten address on it. A big change from the usual bills, magazines, and junk mail.

Derek frowns. "For us?" he says. They get mail from time to time, addressed to Dr. Shepherd and Dr. Grey.

But Meredith shakes her head. "Nope. It's specifically for you."

"… Why?"

Meredith shrugs.

He picks up the envelope from the pile and opens it while she watches. A folded white flyer falls out. He reads it. Slowly. It's announcing a PTA meeting. But … why?

His frown deepens. "Meredith, I don't understand," he says.

"Can I look?" she says.

He shrugs and hands her the flyer. Her eyes dart left to right as she reads. A small smile spreads across her face. "Did you see the highlighted part?" she says.

No. He skipped over it. Neon makes his eyes hurt.

Meredith looks up at him. "The meeting," she says. She points at the flyer. "It's in the auditorium this time. Not the gym. And they highlighted that for you for some reason."

"But …," Derek says. He blinks. He doesn't …. What?

Meredith steps close. She drops the flyer back on the center island. She wraps her arms around him and kisses his chest through his shirt. "I guess someone wants you to know where it is," she says.

He swallows. "Someone …?" Xiomara? He hasn't seen her since that one awful time at the playground.

Meredith nods. She looks up at him. "Wanna go? It's next week."

He looks at the flyer Meredith discarded. And then back at Meredith. "They … s … send me a letter," he says, still a little dumbfounded. They moved the meetings. The big meetings have always been in the gym. There was another one in April, after the one he fled from, and it was in the gym. Meredith went alone. And now they moved them. "They …."

"It looks like it's for summer school, which isn't really for Zola, but … we could go," Meredith says in a prodding tone. "I wouldn't mind going." She grins. "Hell, I might let you drive me."

He snorts. "I make you think you will die. You say that every time I try."

She laughs. "Seriously, Derek. Let's go."

He glances at the flyer again. And then back to Meredith. And then back to the flyer. And then back to Meredith.

He lets himself smile. "Okay," he says. They moved the meetings. "Okay, I will try." They moved the meetings, and, now, he can go. Someone …. He makes a mental note to thank Xiomara if he ever sees her again. For the first time in months, he thinks he might want to.

His smile burgeons.

* * *

June 10, the day of the vow renewal, they have a brief moment, early in the morning when the sky is still black, before the chaos begins. He stares at the ceiling, though all he sees is dark. Today is the day. He goes over his vows in his head. Again. Again. Again. He mouths them silently. Until Meredith stirs next to him.

"Can't sleep?" she whispers.

"No," he says.

"Mmm," she purrs, snuggling against his chest. The covers rustle. "G'morning."

"Hello," he says. He strokes her hair. "We get marry today."

"Yeah." She kisses him. "And I promise it will be perfect no matter what."

"I'm still … some nervous," he admits.

She props herself up on her elbow to glance at his clock. He follows her gaze. They still have … forty-five minutes before the alarm. "Want to fool around?" she says. "I hear it's good for busting nerves."

He snorts. "I thought it's bad day relief."

"It's multipurpose," she replies.

"Sex is useful."

She giggles. "Yes, it is." The mattress creaks as she shifts. She straddles him, her knees gripping his hips. "So, can I take you for a ride?"

He nods. She gathers up the reins, and they blast out of the gate.

* * *

"What about this?" Derek says, standing back from the chair, holding a big hairbrush.

Zola glances in the mirror and frowns. "This isn't how Mommy does it."

She's wearing a beautiful pink dress. Her hair is gathered up into a tiny ponytail with a pink scrunchy. Despite the simplicity of the look, it took Derek about fifteen minutes of brushing and wrestling. It felt like every time he managed to get all the strands together, one would fall out, or there'd be an unsightly lump somewhere, or ….

"I don't think you'll ever make it as a stylist," Stewart decides.

Derek rolls his eyes. "Like you can?"

Stewart snorts. "Touché."

Still, Derek can't help but frown at the sight in the mirror.

Stewart's frowning, too. "That looks … alarmingly high," he says, gesturing at Zola's new 'do. "Should ponytails be that high? I mean, that seems **way** above acceptable follicular altitude."

"I don't know," Derek says. "It look fine to me."

"This **isn't** how Mommy does it," Zola repeats.

Derek looks down at his daughter. "How does Mommy do it?"

But all Zola offers by way of explanation is a Gallic shrug.

"You're a very unhelpful child, you know," Stewart says, and Zola giggles. "Maybe, I should get Sarah. Sarah is excellent at ponytails, if I do say so myself."

"Your hair is long," Derek says. "You never wear ponytail?"

"Well, sure, but only to keep it out of my face when it's pissing me off. Not to be stylish and go to a vow renewal. And certainly not on the top of my head like a punk rocker."

As Meredith has said many times, Derek has a big freaking family, and the day of the ceremony is pandemonium. At the hotel, Derek's spent a lot of time hiding in the dressing room just to keep his brain from unraveling before he has to say his vows. Which, unfortunately, leaves poor Meredith to field the boisterous crowd until go time. She stopped by about twenty minutes ago, dragging Zola by her arm.

 _Fix it!_ Meredith demanded, pointing at the mess on Zola's head. At some point, Zola had yanked out the careful braids Meredith had helped her with that morning. And, so, Derek had begun trying to repair the damage while Stewart coached.

Someone knocks at the door, and Derek looks up. "Yes?"

Miranda pokes her head into the room, takes one look at Zola, and her gaze collapses into glare. "Meredith told me you fools probably needed help." She steps into the room. "That is **not** how to do a ponytail."

"How do I do it?" Derek says.

Miranda approaches, eyes glinting with … something. She takes the brush from him and steps behind Zola. "Hi, Dr. Manda!" Zola says, beaming a smile that shows all of her baby teeth, though she has a few gaps, now, where bigger teeth will be pushing in, soon.

Miranda smiles, and she waves. "Hello, sweetheart." She glances at Stewart, craning her neck back to look up, and up, and up.

"Hi," Stewart says.

"So, you're the new friend," Bailey says, tone flat.

"Yes." Stewart frowns. "Is that okay?"

She sizes him up with an unreadable expression. "Depends," she says. "Are you the kind of friend who encourages other impressionable friends to end up in the emergency room on a regular basis for accidents related to stupid?"

"I don't … think so," Stewart says slowly. "I mean, there was that one time in high school where-"

Miranda folds her arms.

" **Nothing** ," Stewart blurts. Nervous laughter bubbles from his lips. "Nothing happened in high school. So silly of me. Making things up. I'm a fibber. It's a sickness." He cringes, blushing. "You know, you're very scary in person."

"I **know** you're not telling me you'll be a bad influence," Miranda replies, eyes narrowing.

"Nope," Stewart is quick to reply. "I'm downright angelic."

Her eyes keep narrowing.

"Now," Stewart amends. "Downright angelic, **now**."

"Yes, much," Derek adds in Stewart's defense.

There's a tense moment of silence that stretches and stretches and stretches.

And then Miranda snorts. "Nice to meet you," she says in a much kinder tone, and Stewart wilts. "You be good to this one, okay?" she adds, gesturing toward Derek.

"He is," Derek says.

"I am," Stewart says. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Good," Miranda says with a nod, turning to Derek. And then she adds in a hard tone, "Now, take notes, this time, so I don't have to repeat this every time you hit your fool head." Her eyes are smiling, though.

Derek laughs. "You really miss to tease me, don't you?"

Miranda sighs. "It's just not the same without you." She pulls out the alarmingly high ponytail on Zola's head. "One thing you always need to be aware of," she says, "is the kitchen. It's this nappy area at the back of the neck. Forget about taming it. Not gonna happen."

* * *

The room is bare of decoration, just like Meredith wanted. Rows and rows and rows of familiar faces spread back in a fan from the front, where he stands with Sarah, Meredith, the officiant, and Stewart. His mother's in the front row, sitting with Zola by her hip and Bailey in her lap. Behind that, he sees all his sisters and their families. His former coworkers. Melody. Everyone. Meredith's wearing a simple strapless dress that hugs all her curves. The dress is a deep royal purple color, like her favorite scrub cap. She has no bouquet or veil or train.

She's … perfect.

He smiles at her, can't help but stare as she smiles back at him. He's barely hearing the words the officiant is saying at this point. He's here. He's here, getting married.

He finds himself closing his eyes now and then, trying to commit everything to indelible memory. The hush of the crowd. The faint scent of his cologne. The wonderful way his chest aches.

In his mind's eye, he puts Mark on the stoop with Stewart. Two best men. Because how could Derek ever pick?

He imagines his dad next to his mom. He adds Lexie next to Maggie. He doesn't remember Lexie very much, but that doesn't make her any less important. She's part of Meredith's history. And Mark's. She's someone Meredith and Mark loved. And she should be here.

And then they're **all** there. Everyone. His family. Meredith's.

"Derek Shepherd, will you continue to have Meredith Grey as your wife?" says their officiant. "To love, honor, and cherish her, in sickness, and in health, for richer or for poorer, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

Derek swallows. "Yes," he says with a tight nod.

Mr. Oliver, their officiant, turns to Meredith. "Meredith Grey, will you continue to have Derek Shepherd as your husband? To love, honor, and cherish him, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, forsaking all others, for as long as you both shall live?"

"I will," she says in a soft voice.

"Then let us hear, now, the vows you have prepared for each other," Mr. Oliver says. He looks at Derek, eyebrows raised.

Derek glances at the crowd. At all the eyeballs watching him. There are **so** many people. Watching. They'll know every little flub and slip up and inevitable stutter. Stewart stands close behind, waiting with cue cards. He and Derek wrote out all the important words on big cards, and Stewart will pass the appropriate card forward if Derek gets stuck, so Derek can show Meredith the card, if he can't say the word. He hopes he doesn't get stuck, though. He hopes his battered neurons give him a damned break, and just let him speak. He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the way his heart is pounding. Meredith's staring at him, her expression encouraging, hopeful, beautiful.

 _Hey,_ he can almost hear her saying _. You can do this._

He swallows. _Okay._

She gives him a little nod. _Okay._

He steps forward, and he pulls her hand into his. Meredith. He tries to send the word to his mouth. At first, nothing budges, and he has a tense moment when his chest tightens. Meredith, Meredith, Meredith-

"Meredith," he says. Blurts. He resists the urge to wince at the fact that he's turned her name into an outburst. Here goes nothing. He smiles. "Hello. I love you. I promise … to say these thing … to … you … as many time as … you want to hear them." He takes the pause at the end of the sentence to regroup, thinking, thinking. Gratitude. Pleasure. Happy. "Thank …." Thank who? "You for … w-waiting."

And then he's done.

He said his vows. And he didn't screw them up. And Stewart never had to hand him a cue card.

Derek's smile burgeons. His body feels buoyant. He feels like he might lift off the floor. He said his vows. He said them. Not perfectly, but perfect for him, and ….

He lets that be enough for him.

Meredith glances down at his hand. She strokes his thumb. "Derek," she says. "Hi." And then she beams. "I love you, too." She gives him a watery look. He has no idea what she plans to say, only that it's somewhat of a response to his vows. She licks her lips. Her grip tightens. "Two years ago, when the doctors told me to start saying my goodbyes, I never imagined I would be here today, standing …." Her words cut off in an overwrought choke, and she's silent for a moment, regrouping. "Standing in front of our friends and our family, listening to you recite vows, but I guess … that's what makes you you." She touches a hand to his face. "You're always around. Saying things. With your words. By how you act. In the way that you look at me." Her gaze softens as she stares up at him, speaking slowly so he can hear all the words. Every single one. "You make me know that I'm loved through every quiet little thing that you do." Her grip is so tight his knuckles are mashed together. "So, with this in mind," she says, taking another deep breath, "I promise always to hear you speak, whether you're using words or not. Thank you for coming back to me."

The silence stretches in the aftermath. He doesn't see the audience anymore. Doesn't see their reactions. All he sees is her.

"Inasmuch as you, Derek, and you, Meredith, have reaffirmed your marriage before family and before friends, it is my honor to recognize your recommitment as husband and wife," Mr. Oliver says. He raises his hands in a grand gesture. "Please, now, exchange a kiss, to forever seal these promises."

Derek steps close, and gently tips her gaze up to meet his. "Hi," she whispers.

He grins. "Hello. Thank you for this remember."

She stares back at him, watching him through her eyelashes. _You're welcome,_ she says but doesn't say. _And thank_ _ **you**_ _._ He steps closer, until their bodies are a joined, solid piece. Her fingers scrunch at the nape of his neck as she pulls him closer still.

He wraps his arms around her.

He presses his lips to hers.

And he says hello to the rest of his life.

_~finis~_


End file.
